Hobo Saturday

April 30, 2017

My dad,
Who dressed in suits and ties all week
Was a hobo on Saturdays.

Mixing stripes and plaids
He dressed for the woods
And headed out with his stick
To hunt arrowheads

No longer interested in killing anything
Quail or squirrel
His bird dog languished in her pen

But Daddy thrived

Armed with topographic maps
A good imagination
He found where Indians lived
He searched their trash piles
Spotted churt and flint

Brought home his bounty
Of bird points and pottery pieces
Perfect quartz arrowheads
Made the women necklaces
Placed the others in a bowl

My daddy was brilliant
And passionate about a few things:

His God, his family, the garden he designed,
Golf, arrowheads, music, fried okra and crowder peas.

My dad died one month ago today
And I miss him
But cannot be sad
He taught me so much
How to bait my own hook
And rough up the roots before planting

I thought of him yesterday
Looking down from heaven
I dug up earthworms
Set out marigolds
Four tomatoes
I could see his hands guiding mine

Today is Sunday
I missed church
But I worship God
Who created my dad and
All things bright and beautiful.

You are stronger than I.
I hear your words but I no longer believe them

I seduce fate
Love is impatient

It has been six years..
And I am weary of waiting
I will run towards my future
Like a toddler to her dad

I will wear sexy clothes
I will stomp in high heels
I will smile, then turn my head
My shoulder will be bare
My legs smooth
My lips and nails pink

Fate is meant to be tempted
Love is impatient
And I was born to please.

I stand in the McDonald’s parking lot
Greet a new day
The eastern sun glows on my face
The air is warm
A breeze blows my fears away

I think about all that is new
All I’ve never seen before
And glance down at the ant near my sandal

“Santo Santo Santo” I pray
Arms raised
I don’t care who sees me

What I care about is this one ant
And wonder if we’ve ever met


April 24, 2017

The bunny rabbit-a baby– nibbles my clover
I follow the lust of her mouth
The way she is grounded in grass
Wet with dew

My mother reads a novel a night
Her eyes drink the pages like port
She is grounded in a story

Once I pressed my body
Into the floor of Cannon Chapel
A professor taught me how

Now my feet choose grass over pavement
I remove shoes and smart from tiny pebbles
Feel the moist earth
Avoid a dandelion

I almost skip
As my appetite grows

I long to be voracious again
Satiate hunger pangs with passion

Spring Tonic

April 23, 2017

I drive the backroads through Alabama and consider a trailer in a field
It could work
It might work

I know I need a spring tonic
Sassafras tea or ginger root
I need a shaking
A quickening

I am greeted by soft white skin
Dimpled elbows
And a wide happy grin

Six teeth
She grows
As does my spirit

She’s in ‘big girl’ pajamas
No longer swaddled.

I want to swaddle her in my arms
Hold her for a lifetime,
My spring tonic
My Caroline.

Grief Sits on my Chest

April 20, 2017

Grief sits on my chest like a heavy cat purring
I wheeze, the breath rattles
Like my father’s final gasp.


April 16, 2017

Hyacinth pinks and purples bloom
And eggs are died to match them
My son draws a hill
It is Calvary
Three empty crosses

I gaze at the one in the center
A lily blooms
A voice from heaven
A man in white
A resurrection

Now, what will I do
With the stone rolled away?
What will I do in the Garden?
Who will I tell?
What will I say?

“He is risen. Alleluia!”


April 13, 2017

Thomas Aquinas, my guess, familiar with its paralysis,
Wrote it was no sin
I don’t even wrestle like Jacob
I cough
My arms are spent