Poetry

Am I not my sisters’ keeper? As we shout when wolves crouch down, and hold back blood and tooth and claw with flimsy skirts and petticoats and when we cheer the jungle king that lies with calves in sweet green clover water washing rocks and mistakes clean. Wisdom, pain and sorrow, shame water washing rocks and mistakes clean. Am I not my sisters’ keeper as the pressures of our lives erupt? Who can calm my sister down? Bowls of water, cool fresh water wiping fevered brows with prayer. Rock of Ages, cool fresh water offering faith and love and hope

I slog through muck, a sticky mix of wrongs that reign. I protest. I carry with me no sign, only one lone woman’s heart-scream. I side-step puddles, fearful of taking on more dampness, darkness, dread, doubt, despair. And yet And yet In a stagnant pool of tomorrow’s rain I see, within its waters, reflected the howl of another woman’s rage. Despite myself, I hope.

Appreciating urban art, I see “I love you, Tara” spray painted on every other overpass in town.   A sweet, romantic story, I think Until “They Trick Me, Baby” appeared next to one of them.   A plea for mercy! So I cheered on Graffiti Boy/hoped for forgiveness but, alas, it was not to be.   “Tara” was soon crossed out in sprayed splendor, replaced by a heartfelt “I love you, Dorothy.”   Maybe this time? One can only hope.