Poems
About Transition
The
Smooth, White, Square Box
On
an ordinary day, a youth from the funeral home
delivered
a smooth, white, square box.
When
departing, he said,
“Have
a good day.” I wish he hadn’t.
Fresh
faces and agile bodies
know
nothing of the tributaries of death
flowing
in different directions.
I
tucked my husband’s ashes under
my
grandmother’s antique table
that
the grandfather clock sits on
ticking
off time in generations.
Layers
of comfort and memories
intersect
crisscrossing dimensions.
A
ladybug strolls across the windowsill
while
the robin struts his red breast.
What
do they know of ashes in boxes?
On
an ordinary day, my daughter
picked
up the smooth, white, square box and
drove
out west for a later family gathering
of
the scattering of the ashes.
It
was a hard day.
Once
I fell on cinders
in
my grandmother’s driveway,
I
cut my knee.
The
iodine made the blood run redder.
My
grandmother said she had to rip off the band-aid.
exposing
the wound to heal.
I
thought she didn’t know what she was talking about.
When
the band-aid finally fell off
white
sheets hanging from clotheslines
flap
in summer’s lilac-scented breeze.
The
scar is there.
It will always be there.
Death
Is Never Late
Death
clung to his wife’s clothes
like
a man dangling over a cliff
grasping
a rope.
Magnolia
flowers’ lemony scent
unable
to mask the acrid stench
of
the petty man dying on the veranda.
Easter
Sunday’s bells tolled
as
the still air held its breath
slowing,
exhaling.
Death massaged the mean man’s vice grip.
The
Walrus and the Oyster Bar Connection
Down
at the Walrus and Oyster Bar Connection
on
a hot summer night
two
mariachis strum their guitars as
a
flamenco dancer shouts ay,ay,ay
and swirls her colorful skirt.
A
haggard sheriff dressed in black
swings
open the door and steps into the bar.
Three
bandits playing poker in a back corner
curled
their lips and stepped forward.
The
lawman tipped his hat.
The
music stops as
as
the folklorico skirt
falls
silent about the señorita’s ankles.
The
law and the outlaws meet
in
the middle of the stale saloon.
Shots
like a lariat crack the floor
as
smoke invades the dance hall and
screams
split the smoke-filled air.
The
sheriff walks past the thieves
with
their silver boot tips pointing up.
Justice
tips his hat and walks out the door.
Two
mariachis strum guitars,
the
señorita swirls her rainbow skirt
down
at the Walrus and Oyster Bar Connection
on a smooth Saturday night.
Limbo
Land
Arriving
but never arriving,
leaving
but never leaving,
knowing
but never knowing
stranded
in the badlands of Limbo Land
A
man crosses the desert
finds
himself inside out
on
the other side of the world.
A
racecar driver flattens
out
the curves and
drives
out of the stadium
on
rimless wheels.
The
long night of sighing
when
lovers whisper
across
the abyss
aching
pain stretched taut
between
goalposts snaps.
The
Mask of Poverty
She
dons the mask of piety
to
disguise bald-faced greed.
She
wears the mask of poverty
to
hide her wealth with glee.
Sly
eyes covet and snatch potatoes
in
the back of the church
gleaned
for the poor.
Insulated
from alarms
with
orgasms pulsating
she
counts her coins
in
front of her fat idol.
Her
lean barefoot children
play
in the streets.
When
beggars see her finery,
they
cover their dusty faces.
Aged,
she sits alone
in
her house of gold.
Her
ragged children
live
with chipped
furniture
and dreams.
Blinds
drawn, she takes off her mask
and
caresses her coins
in
front of her
obese
idol.
Leigh-Anne Burley publishes poetry and fiction. Her work is online.
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