Embroidery Thread

Though the rest of her body
moves in time with the flow of molasses,
Fran's fingers still strike quickly
with a needle and thick colored thread
through tautly pulled fabric.
Her skin is loose
compared to the cloth
through which
her needle pokes,
but her veins run through her body
just as the thread stretches
through the embellished
pillow cases, handkerchiefs, and tablecloths
that lay finished at her side.

When the light stops peering through
the double pained windows and the curtain lace
it is time that Fran
settles her fingers
for the evening.
Tenderly,
she begins to fold her wares
into perfect square parcels,
never to be unfolded or adored
until a customer examines it
herself.

Through table displays of wicker baskets-
formed by Frannie's deceased husband-
customers will rifle
for the song bird
whose presence will make their dinner parties
sing when served alongside these napkins.
Each discarded possibility
Fran folds
slowly and automatically
into a square piece of fabric
that displays
a corner of design
unabashed.

Once every article is ordered
into its rightful place,
Fran will retire
to her rough wooden chair
in the corner of her kitchen.
It is dark there,
having but one dim light bulb
nakedly protruding
from its socket,
but her eyes are tired
and accustomed to this soft atmosphere.
Pouring a can of soup
into a blue and white chipped bowl
and heating it in the microwave
is a daily ritual which
she could just as likely perform
in darkness.
The light rests her eyes and body.
It is not until
the steam stops rising
and the soup is once again cool
that Fran can,
with her now trembling hand,
pick up her spoon to eat.

Had the spoon been polished,
or even properly washed,
it's concave end
would reflect a healthy spoonful of a woman.
Instead,
the spoon is scratched beyond knowing
and only rinsed between uses.
The real reflection-
no matter the light-
is haunting.

She wears shoes
whose soles died ten year's prior-
about the same time
as the death of her husband.
Her socks,
woolen even in summer,
have holes through the toes and heels.
One day, there will be nothing,
but their dank aroma
for proof of their wear.
A wrinkled ankle-length
flowered skirt-
the pattern much like that of curtains-
pairs its dishevelment
with a pearl gray buttoned blouse-
white in another era.
Atop her head,
Fran's brush bristle hair
sits fitfully.
The gray mass
falls out of her bun,
but her hands do not bother
to rearrange the threads.

Grandfather

Arms,
stoic and solid,
lead to the golden brown
of hands
clenched tightly into fists.
The crooks of the elbows
and curves in the hands
are worn lighter
looking much like patches
of wooden yellow sun-spots.
The grooves along
this frame,
crooked with wise weights,
are permanently tattooed by shadows.
Time hasn't seeped
through the entire surface yet,
but it has reached
the core of this body.

Bronze tacks
are the sinew
that hold red velvet fabric
to a scratched but proud
wooden skeleton.
The metal is gray with age.
A swipe of furniture polish-
lemon scented for this purpose-
reveals an instant
of mirrors
which fades all too soon.
Such acts of deception
are common.
Watch as spots of white
worn into the velvet
blush red with a brush of the hand.
Feel the cushion's plush exterior
deplete upon your insistence.
Underneath,
bare bones introduce
their bare and brittle presence.

After seventy years of sitting,
there is little comfort left.
Let this body rest
in state,
until those who buried him-
through the fragility of memory-
forget their times spent looking up from the lap
of their father's sand-paper face
and grandfather's rosin-lit eyes.

Vines for Veins

My roots reach into the soil
and my blades tip toward the sky.
I am entangled
in my footsteps
and mixed in
with the underbrush.

I have foot holds
in these
granules of earth,
but I am not kept
from exploring.

Part of me
erodes with each storm,
free to follow
new desires.
Some of yours
washed onto me
taking the place
of rain's etchings.

I am changed
by more
than earth's rotations.
Thoughts of mine
rethink themselves-
sometimes with the shoots of others
giving reassurance
within their shade.

There is no limit to growth
when the sky
appears so infinite,
but my perception
is miscalculated.
Expansion pushes up
against the walls
of other gardens.
I don't always succeed,
but I am
as persistent as grass

creeping up the cracks

in a gray sidewalk.

The Companionship of Seclusion

Her almost black bangs
catch on the tips
of her even darker
eyelashes.
The rest of her hair
runs straight
into gravity's
seductive clutch.
In this merciless chamber
also swims her sharp perfume
-lavender, I think,
but I don't know
fields of flowers
as well as I know her.

I meet her dark gray eyes
for instants
that impress upon me
for all eternity.
Her eyes hold mine
and direct my gaze
through the dirty
double pained windows
of my dimly lit attic.
What she sees
in the world
I am ever-asking.
Wordless replies
breathe cold air
down my neck
and raise goosebumps
along my spine.

She does not feel cold
though her skin
is perpetually
that temperature
to my touch.
How she stands it,
I know not.
Her hush
crazes me
and I must leave her
to be alone.

It is hard to think
in the presence
of her paper white skin.
I feel haunted
by a living ghost-
one that lingers
without revealing
its mission.

Unlike a ghost,
however,
Solitude has no past.
I am her present,
and already
I can guess her future.
This window seat
and backyard swing
are her homes.
She moves into
these barren places
where sometimes I reminisce
until I can't bear
the lonely air
any longer.
Together or apart,
we don't stay long
as either.

Rusty Town

Threadbare voices
crowd the air.
Some notes ricochet
like an un-tuned violin
others like wheat rustling.

I count their syllables
out of habit
and they their coins
out of need.

A penny per ounce
has long since passed-
I'm lucky to get
a penny per page.

Suck down the last bits
of salt and pepper joy.

The horizon ails
sucking life
from this dilapidated town.
I see no precipice for elation
rolling into view.

Bending down
with backs of rod
and soggy plaster,
the workers bow
in prayer:
God lift me,
but the plaster dries.

Soon,
the only way free
is broken.
Salvation comes from a preachers lips
whose battered bible
is self-inscribed.

Let his words
hang themselves in the air.

Dangle your own thoughts,
drop them through the air,
break them open with mortar and pestle,
and mix them
in the meal of others.

Eat redemption.