Five Poems by Cynthia Bernard

 

In the Laundry Room                      

 

Prop you up in a wicker basket,

hand you a chrome tea-ball on a chain,

sing along with “Sugar Magnolia”

and do the diaper folding dance.

 

Hand you a chrome tea-ball on a chain,

you bobble it, spit-shining-wet,

watch my diaper folding dance;

the dryer vibrates, v-vroo v-vroo.

 

You bobble it, spit-shining-wet,

blue-white bubble of mommy-milk;

the washer cycles, gl-gloo gl-gloo,

brown eyes dancing wide.

 

Blue-white bubble of mommy-milk

grows then shrinks on the beat.

Pecan eyes smiling wide,

gold-flecked just like mine

 

Bubbles kept time with the beat.

Where have they gone?

Gold-flecked, you were mine,

my laundry room companion—

 

Where have you gone?

What props you up now?

My laundry room companion,

what do you bobble and toss?

 

Who props you up now?

One diagnosis, then another

for you to bobble and toss,

each another bungee cord.

 

One psych eval, then another

pull you into a basket far away.

Yet another bungee cord…

Do you sing, my Sugar Magnolia?

 

Intersection

 

We wait for the light to change.

 

Cars spew

brake lights flare

drivers glare at

the still-red light.                                              

 

We met here

for the first time.

We come back

to walk.

 

The light changes. We cross.

 

The trail atop the cliff

is solid on the traffic side

crumbling away

on the ocean side.

Only a few morsels today

but after a storm

raggedy chunks of cliffside

break free and tumble down

offering themselves

to be pounded

over and over

into sand

welcoming the waves

as the ocean goes on

always goes on

long after

our walk is over

long after the trail

and the traffic light

are gone.

 

 

Daddy

 

When my therapist said you were a terrible father, you flared up within me and almost cascaded out of my mouth… Most of the time now, I’m not scurrying around looking for dimly-lit corners where I can hang out with my back to the wall. Most of the time now, I’m not juggling sarcastic come-backs, not throwing I’ll-get-you-first daggers, not spinning recluse spider webs around myself, not feeling obliged to hide—to be ashamed and hide, hide my wrongness, hide the mystery: What the hell is defective about me anyway?

Still sometimes the fault lines crack open, strobe lights flash, and I remember you looking at me as if you opened up a long-lost Tupperware from the back of the fridge and saw something disgusting… And, Daddy, when you came home from work, when you walked through the door, I had to look into the Tupperware of you: Were you festering, slimy? Rancid? So many times I knew, I knew—I would be hit that night—chased and hit, pounded on with your hand and your belt and your words. Any excuse would do.

 

In my kitchen at midnight

 

I’m making myself sick

with what if and why not

and who-does-she-think-she-is.

 

Run through, rewind, repeat—

stuck.

 

Turn to put the kettle on for tea

and notice

the foghorn’s perpetual lament

and its seasonal counterpoint,

sea lions voicing their complaints.

.

The leaves of the prayer plant

are clasped in their nightly devotion,

bananas in the shallow white bowl

display just a few brown spots,

perfect for slicing into oatmeal tomorrow,

and from upstairs, snoring,

soft, then not-so-soft, then soft again.

 

Breathe

and breathe some more, slowly,

down and down

all the way into my feet.

 

Sit down.

Sip green tea blended with ginger.

 

Erase the tape.

Record something new.

 

In my kitchen at midnight

I’m making, as always,

a life.

 

 

Fault Lines

 

Did you put on the kettle, Mom,

stir up a cup of Folgers Instant,

add some nonfat milk                                    

and the powder

from a little pink packet?

 

Did you sit at the kitchen table

in the squeaky yellow chair

with chrome tepee legs,

light up a Winston,                 

and shake your head

while he pounded me

with caustic words

and his old brown belt

with the brass buckle?

 

Did you memorize what he said

as it slammed through the house       

so you could spit it back in his face

later, when you told him

it was all his fault?

 

And did you carefully note

what I said or didn’t say

did or didn’t do          

so afterwards                                                 

you could justify telling me

it was all my fault

too?

Cynthia Bernard is a woman in her late sixties who is finding her voice as a poet after many years of silence. A long-time classroom teacher and a spiritual mentor, she lives and writes on a hill overlooking the ocean, about 25 miles south of San Francisco. Her work appears in Multiplicity Magazine, Heimat Review, The Beatnik Cowboy, The Journal of Radical Wonder, Spillwords, Passager, The Bluebird Word, Persimmon Tree, Verse-Virtual, and elsewhere.