Blank is the map of my brain secreting
pearls of commas and semi colons
but not any periods of value in the winter.
Dead is the ink in my pen,
a skunk discharging odor of garlic wrapped
in rotten rhythms, in the middle of spring.
White is the shadow of the blue bedspread
drowning the bones of sentences
with tears on a hot summer day.
Barren is the womb
of words hanging at the cemetery,
as maple reaches the well of autumn.
I decry the moment of write right
with seasons escaping tunnels of distraction,
becoming a noose around the fingertip.
I was prepared for the Awkward Age
the physical changes, personality,
frustration, exasperation, even rage—
but not for this.
I was prepared to smile knowingly, thinking
This too shall pass.
And we will always love each other, I tell myself
as much as it is possible to love anyone
right?
You are in your room, alone, with a book.
Who taught you how to read?
Seemed like a good idea at the time.
My questions are greeted with
monosyllabic replies, grunts really,
and eye rolls, withering looks, sarcasm—
the lowest form of human discourse—
and finally the screaming:
Why can’t you just leave me alone?
Here’s why:
I still remember reading you Charlotte’s Web
taking you for long walks in the rain
through the San Juan Mountains
hand-in-hand
watching you sneak downstairs after bedtime
so we could watch Buffy the Vampire Slayer
together
coming to the choir loft
midway through the service
so you could sit on my lap.
The Awkward Age is supposed to be
awkward for you, not me. I should
be the parent
but instead I’m a marionette
with tangled strings, a poor sap trapped
in Shelob’s web
a capeless hero, destroyed
by a new color of kryptonite
and you are the elusive hummingbird
who hovers in midair for a short time
and then skitters away
faster than my eye can follow.
In my dream
I am the Nobel Prize winner
and he is the quiet admirer at the foot of the stairs.
He is decidedly modest about the popularity of his work
just as I say nothing about my recent raves in the Utne Reader
and Granta.
I am with a woman named Genevieve
(pronounced the French way).
She is tall and slender and wears a black dress
slit between the legs
pearls and a diamond pendant
and her eyes tell everyone in the room that she adores me
while he is with a chick from the hood named Darla
who is wearing open-toed sandals and capris.
My books are displayed in hermetically sealed library cases
along with literary memorabilia
and a few choice photographs from my distinguished past.
Some of the guests attending the reception
tell him that they bought his latest book
for a hospitalized aunt
or a black sheep brother who didn’t go to college.
I am generous when I meet him
and say how much I admire his work
even though I don’t.
Our lady friends size each other up
and he and I exchange a long, transporting gaze.
He realizes that I am envious of his popularity with readers
just as he resents my astounding success
in the faculty lounge.
My name is Emerson Babylon.
I wear a bowtie and suspenders
I see spots on my scalp
furrows on my forehead
frost in my eyebrows.
They lied.
Knowledge is no compensation
for dysfunction and darkness
for the stitch in my side
the popping when I kneel
Seiko stole my salad
and replaced it with cold cuts.
I will not weep for time lost.
I remember uncreased sheets
the certainty of loneliness
the agents of criticism and control
now I see only you
It is not wisdom that comes with age
but passion.
I was angry.
I wanted to sunbathe on Jones beach
Then I thought of people
In Georgia
Who prayed for rain —
Diagonal raindrops
Meant our lawn would thrive.
Today I tried to drive to
The super market to buy two items
But our car wouldn’t budge.
The motor sputtered.
I nearly called my soup kitchen friend
For help,
Then I heard about a woman
Desperate to go to the hospital
But she had no car, no cab money
The buses were on strike,
So she walked two miles, then gasping,
Crawled into the emergency room
And collapsed in front of doctors.
I put on my Mediterranean blue coat,
Walked six blocks
Bought my eggs and cheese.
I was so invigorated by my jaunt,
I nearly skipped home.
Later I rested on my plush bed
Turned on the TV but it would not work.
I thought, I’m missing my cooking program
I called my friend, “Get real,” she said.
The people who come to my soup kitchen
Have no TV, no shower, no stove.”
I hung up, had a snack, read a book.
I thought, I’m lucky; I have health, a home,
Loyal friends, plenty of food. I have my
Freedom. I’ve never experienced a Tsunami,
Nor cyclone. I can say what I think–within reason.
© All rights reserved Juanita Torrence-Thompson
Knowing she dabbled in art,
Creating sculptured delights
That repleted her soul like
An immovable feast.
Knowing she flew South
To his funeral – A dear friend –
Couldn’t miss it.
Knowing she saw his and her friends
There like Old Home Week
— Alabama college days re-blossomed.
Knowing she attended a fish fry
At his widow’s mansion. What an eye opener!
She loved her twin girls,
Workaholic husband, Ralph, but
Had she made the right choices?
Should she have moved South
To wallow in luxury?
Knowing she traveled to Birmingham now
Photographed a famous church
Where black children were murdered on 16th Street
Knowing she wandered the streets
With her friend where Birmingham hoses
Had attacked black protesters
Streets that looked quite innocent now
Knowing she bought fruit
At Birmingham Farmer’s Market
Paid the young white clerk
Who smiled, looked into her mahogany face
And said, “Thank you for your patronage, ma’m,
Come again.” Knowing she was surprised,
But returned a smile as, “You’re welcome.”
Flew from her lips.
Knowing she sauntered out of that Birmingham
Market feeling at peace with herself
And knowing and knowing and knowing…
© All rights reserved Juanita Torrence-Thompson
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