At My Worst
“My,
didn’t Betty Jean
do such a
nice job
on the flowers?
Those yellow daisies
Julia sent are
just breathtaking.
And your grandma,
why, honey,
she looks so natural.”
And I just stare
at this woman,
and I’m thinking,
Are you on crack?
I can see her too,
slipping furtively
behind the Tas-T-Freeze
to buy that
little yellow rock
that will make
her forget
how simple
her life
really
is.
Make her forget
all those gross
platitudes
she thought
I’d be so
grateful for.
My grandmother’s
jaundiced eyes
are weighed down by
blue eyeshadow,
closed forever against
the disease that
murdered her.
Yeah, lady,
she looks real natural,
if natural is
putting dead people
in caked-on makeup
to cover
what sunlight won’t
ever touch again
and parading them
up and down
your runway of
nostalgia and regret.
Don’t drop your cheery,
summer-day,
buttercup
disposition into my
pocket like
so much loose change.
Don’t try to cover the
smell of urine
that still
even now
flies out of the
folds of my clothes
to bring back the images
of yellowed sheets
and steel needles.
Your casual mention
of golden streets and
mansions
are only drops in the
bucket my grandmother
vomited the poison
and lemon Jell-O.
into.
When they bring
the yellow roses
to your room
(because they won’t be
able to watch you die),
I hope they choose
a good florist.
When they put those
black-blue bruises
(quickly turning to
that sickly green-yellow)
on your arms
from pulling the pads
from under you,
I hope you will know,
yellow was not ever
a color you looked
good in.
Chivalry Undone
All this time
there were
the secrets and
giggles and
quiet fears
and losses shared.
We were
carried within
the same womb
of insecurities
and past-life debris.
We never had
enough time
to finish each
gory detail of life
we needed to
poke and prod
and turn around
in our minds
to grasp the path
that should be laid
before us.
There was
never enough
time for me
to guard
you against
your downfalls
and enemies.
There was just
never enough time.
And loyalty
was a tangible thing,
as unbreakable as
a priest’s vows
and menacing
and protective
as a stone wall.
I wanted you
to release me
like a hound
on your enemies
to fight the fight—
your wounds were
too deep for the war—
and to show you
the glories of
man-freedom.
There was
a place to be safe
and you.
There is
no more
that can be said.
There is
not enough time
to mend
what has been torn.
Your armor
is lust and
your weapons
are flesh.
You are
the concubine
of all that will
destroy you.
But I wish you well.
Phyllis is a 34-year-old, North Carolina native who has been writing since she was 15. She received her undergraduate degree in English Literature from N.C. State, where she now works in education and assessment. She has found poetry to be a release valve during life's tumultuous times. She also likes to dabble in phrases that get stuck in her head and see what unfolds. Phyllis currently lives in Garner, NC with her wonderful husband and two amazingly awesome dogs, Walter and Audrey.
Archived at http://girlswithinsurance.com/index.php/poetry/42-poetry/259-pl-0710-two and shortlinked at http://frsh.in/dk
