On the day when the news burned, a flame of pain scorched the earth
Beyond any before
When shock and awe were heard round the world for all the world to see
There was love
Birthing and breathing in a small space in a world that I curate
But in fact, no it’s all grace
Raising and loving
Pregnant pauses of hope and wait
Douse the fiery news
Run across the earth like meteors crossing paths in heaven
Locked and loaded with Love
On the day that the news seared my soul, I could not sleep
But for the remembering of him and his love
He told me in trust, a lifetime lead up to this
His words, like a shooting star
All cliche for some, but not for me, he shot his bow
As a warrior for Cupid
He told me of his Love
On the day that the burning down of hope in good shattered my soul, as never before
A new howl for the hurting echoed the canyons of the living
Love raised from the ash
Head on the pillow
Heart filled with dreams of full moons and meteor showers and shooting stars
I pray Lord have mercy in octaves higher than
I look heaven-ward and say again
Go forth, in Love
Muting the cries of the moaning
Love wins in the middle
Of a life
In the middle of a war
I’ve drawn back my bow
Go in Love with me
Pieces of me come from 1959. They would have to. I picked up the times in which I was born. Birthed and set to grow in soil of the South yet for a time, wandering under the wing of my parents. From Boston to the middle of the US. I have memories of the milk truck, as I walk my dogs around this village. At dusk. Dusty memories appear. I see only the blurry face of him, the milkman, we did not know his name. We, the children, but it came. Mana, all we’d need. These were the days of boundaries of want. It was all right there. There were sweaty glasses of iced tea and warm milk. And clearing one’s plate. And stories of children in Africa in want. And books on the bed after school, shiny and new. And sugar on grapefruit and grapefruit spoons. These were the days of walking to school.
Pieces of me come from watching the man step on the moon. They would have to. I picked up the times in which I was born and raised. Before the sleep-over, piles of giggly girls watching a giant leap for mankind, was it black and white, I stood in puddles of grief. In front of the screen, I know was white and black and a president was buried in plain view on that screen. Camelot, I may not have understood then. I do now. I picked up parts of the me I am from the life and death of then. Of a television showing Vietnam war footage while we tried to swallow our food. War and dinner. For a time. I know it was in color then, the camo and blood.
Later I would gather up the sweet smell of gardenias in June, skinned knees year round, stubbed toes worn as battle scars from play and Sunday’s at The Country Club after church. We sat in the same pew year after year. Politics in the family DNA. There were more than a few eyes on us. Always. They are a box of Crayola’s coloring in the lines of me. These memories. The roses that didn’t quite bloom. Seeing shadows through a louvered bedroom door. And riding horses, the real ones and the pretend.
I will walk my dogs in my new old village home. Where I will pick up memories of me. I am made from scraps of quiet. Pieces of simple. And yards of complex. Reams of contradictions too. The scent of Noxema and lemon squares. The days of telephones, two lines and election night and slogans for a father’s campaign. A Southern Democrat. Aiming for Congress.
Pieces of me come from 1959. They would have to. I am gathering memories that make me me. And recalling what came before and after, the days the milkman came. The days when a side porch held so much abundance and hope. The white liquid for dipping Oreo cookies. I didn’t. My father did. My father, a tickle machine. Raucous play and laughter. And multiple Christmas trees. My mother, silver and linens and elbows off the table Mabels. And Tab. And I am just getting started.
Fifty-five years of shading in the details of me. The days before the poetry. My life could be labeled before poetry and after poetry. But I would rather think about the milkman.