September rain falls on the house.
In the failing light, the old grandmother
sits in the kitchen with the child
beside the Little Marvel Stove,
reading the jokes from the almanac,
laughing and talking to hide her tears.
She thinks that her equinoctial tears
and the rain that beats on the roof of the house
were both foretold by the almanac,
but only known to a grandmother.
The iron kettle sings on the stove.
She cuts some bread and says to the child,
It's time for tea now; but the child
is watching the teakettle's small hard tears
dance like mad on the hot black stove,
the way the rain must dance on the house.
Tidying up, the old grandmother
hangs up the clever almanac
on its string. Birdlike, the almanac
hovers half open above the child,
hovers above the old grandmother
and her teacup full of dark brown tears.
She shivers and says she thinks the house
feels chilly, and puts more wood in the stove.
It was to be, says the Marvel Stove.
I know what I know, says the almanac.
With crayons the child draws a rigid house
and a winding pathway. Then the child
puts in a man with buttons like tears
and shows it proudly to the grandmother.
But secretly, while the grandmother
busies herself about the stove,
the little moons fall down like tears
from between the pages of the almanac
into the flower bed the child
has carefully placed in the front of the house.
Time to plant tears, says the almanac.
The grandmother sings to the marvelous stove
and the child draws another inscrutable house.
Bishop's words were, obviously, tears, almanac, grandmother, stove, child, and house. Now for mine. Again, a disclaimer, I make no claims as to the quality of my poetry. If you don't like it, I'm very sorry. Direct thy web browser elsewhere.
Sestina
Caroline Franks
His rolled-up shirtsleeves smell of stale tobacco and fresh detergent
“you make things interestin’” he says… calls it “bringin’ sauce”
The roaring pickup stops, the heat cranks up on the Jackson Bridge
I never felt as wild as that, a girl in the muscled arms of a man.
2 AM, tugging on my dress and he’s laying on the gas, we lost track of time
Sneaking in the back door, the floorboard squeals. Daddy’s in the kitchen chair.
I’ve stood all day- the belt marks smart against the chair
But I can still smell his sweet masculine tobacco-and-detergent
Countin’ the clicking clock above the stove, ticking measured time
Wiping palm sweat on a stained apron, stirring the sauce
Tonight the open window will release me to my man
The road will open back to Jackson Bridge.
Mama’s friends around a table, griping about men and playing bridge
Meaty bulk in faded calico draped over either side of the protesting chair
Daddy’s at Sam’s for the beer, “just like a man…”
Conversation runs to the price hike on detergent
Mrs. Landes compliments me on the sauce
I smile and nod and slip out; escape time.
~~~
Hours creep, drag along. It’s always fighting me, time.
Tonight’s the women’s night for bridge.
He mutters somethin’ when he walks past- already on the sauce.
Creak, creak, creak. Damn creakin’ rockin’ chair.
It smells of mud in here. Mud and detergent.
Gold glints dully on my knotted hand, the last tie to that man.
He’s got a bottle in his fist, just like a man.
The arms that so entranced me as a girl felt the passing time
He smells of sour beer and sweat instead of tobacco and detergent
I was seventeen the last time I saw Jackson Bridge
I knit, I wash, I think, I wish from this creakin’ chair
Still wipin’ palm sweat on an apron, still stirring the sauce.
Sue made the gravy, she makes a mean sauce
But there’s black marks round her arm- married a mean man.
Hefty bulk, a workin woman’s weight on a tired chair
Proof, it could be worse. Could be worse than just my painful wear of time.
Sunday: complainin about men over casserole and a hand of bridge
The feminine mystique- a hovering cloud of scrubbing bleach and cheap detergent
Hands bleached by detergent, burned by a stove of sauce
Women playin bridge, a beer-soaked sleeping man
The eternal creak of time and a worn-out rocking chair.
