Praying in the Mission Church

Her face is like a pecan,

shelled and weathered.

Her legs are the roots of a cypress tree,

bent a little at the knees, but still strong.

She walks three miles to the mission church,

kneels at a pew in the back row to pray.

She prays for her son, that he might stop living

at the bottom of a bottle.

She prays for her daughter,

who long ago left for the iron city.

She prays for the child she lost in the winter of ’25.

The dusty light from the small high window

wraps around her like a blanket.

Vietnam

The dead come to the river to worship

each morning, slipping silently through

the fog that is their shield and their shroud.

They drink from the stream with cupped hands

and wash their wispy faces and whisper their prayers,

then slip away again as the sun burns away the fog.

Midwife

The heel of my hand

against the small of her back,

I rest the weight of my body

against the strength of her contraction

and we wait

together

suspended above

a dark abyss

by the finely-balanced thread

of our breathing.

Numb

Numb from Percocet and Ativan,

I teeter to the kitchen, heat water

for tea, which I then forget, let steep

until it is a thick, bitter brew,

and stone-cold.

To the Person That Keeps Posting Hateful Comments on My Blog

I'm pretty sure I know who you are, though I'm not sure why you're so full of anger and hate when we haven't even spoken in about 10 years.  If you need to discuss something with me, and if you can do so in a polite, respectful manner, please email me at poet_kelly at yahoo dot com.  It seems like something better discussed in private, not on a blog.  However, if you are not able to communicate in a polite, respectful manner, then don't bother emailing.  I won't respond to verbal abuse.

I'd like you to stop posting inappropriate, rude, hateful, hurtful comments on my blog.  That's not what this blog is for.  I will continue to moderate comments and to delete all comments of this sort.  Those kinds of comments are not welcome here.  Comments about my daughter are particularly unwelcome and inappropriate.  You're an adult.  Start acting like it.

Whatever the reason for your anger and hatred, perhaps you would benefit from seeking some professional help in dealing with it.  But take it elsewhere.  It doesn't belong here.  It's not welcome here.  Move on and get a life of your own.  Leave mine alone.

Sincerely,

Kelly

underwater

strong jaws close around her ankle

and loneliness  pulls her down

with a sucking sound,

gnashing its teeth and thrashing its tail

and rolling her over and over and over

until she lies limp in the water.

Driving Home

for Howie

Driving home through dark and rainswept streets

in this place where love and sorrow meet

I roll the windows down,

let the cold air wipe me clean,

disperse the anguish I have seen.

The smell of death lingers on me,

my sweater stained with salty tears

of fathers, sisters, lovers,

my arms ache from holding

those who cry and those

who cannot,

ache as after a long hard birth

and holding a mother who labors.

The night is quiet and still

and no baby cries

as I drive home.