THE POND HERON
The dead don't write.
But my cousin's letter
comes three days after he's blown away
by some kid in his own platoon.
Maybe another Georgia boy
who's never been so far from home
and is scared out of his mind
so scared he shoots at anything
that moves in the shadows.
The letter feels thin
light for my cousin's voice.
He describes water lilies
sheer petals that rise
from muddy fields and spread
before the sun.
He speaks of a Chinese pond heron
that hovers on hinged legs
at the water's edge.
Never mentions the horror
screams from seared bodies
stench of napalm and burning flesh.
I weep
clutch the letter for what
it can not give.
¤ ¤ ¤
NATALIE
While Natalie Wood twirls in the Tennessee night
suspended above trucks
Billy pushes me down on the seat
fumbles with my bra.
He's heavy and clumsy
wants me for his steady girl
leaves a hickey on my breast.
I know how to hide traces of sex
with powder and perfume
how to please penis and mama
at the same time
go through a string of Billies
settle out of state
for one of them.
Years later Natalie falls off a boat.
I dream I'm treading water when
she reaches for help.
Afraid of going under
I watch her drown.
¤ ¤ ¤
MY TURN TO WATCH GRANDDADDY'S BODY
He'd sit in a cane rocker on his dirt yard
shirt cuffs flapping yell to mama
"girl bring me some tea."
Lucky for him she adored her daddy
otherwise that old goat
would've died a lot sooner.
A mining doctor he bled the sick
for money they never had called them
stupid animals.
When they couldn't pay he bartered
for crops coal corn liquor
loved devil's brew more than himself.
I thought some angry miner might
kill him with a bad batch instead
he died in his sleep at ninety.
I didn't like him alive don't care
what happens to him now but in respect
to all the dead I'll stay my time.
