Shirley Anne Alexander

1978,
the seventh anniversary of our marriage
we spent the night in a van,
on top of Brasstown Bald mountain.
...

The land has many spirits.
They see us; they know us,
better than we know ourselves.
...

She sits by a bright, bare window
in a chair that has seen too much wet.
She is picking on days in her past,
fingers digging nervously into scalp.
...

In winter, bones of this land are laid bare,
exposed to drying wind and white blind of frost.
Cosmetic camouflage of kinder seasons are gone.
In winter, we see the strength of framework behind green.
...

I am not the woman people envy
in her confident, got-it-all-together stride.
I am not that person who is called to offer prayer
in a gathering of Christians.
...

Nineteen sixty-nine. The autumn fair was in Athens.

I was sixteen. You had finished your senior year.
...

He said I sleep like an unborn child, naked,
with knees drawn to belly, hands clasped
palm to palm, and held tightly together
by thighs clasped tightly together, by instinct.
...

I remember Easter dresses. Folds of pastel cotton.
Embroidery. Lace edges. Starched bow sashes.
Scent of sunlight and my mother's lemon sachet.
But, I am a quiet blue jeans grandmother,
...

Life is a broken bowl, held together
by the cup of a tired woman‘s hands.

History is written in swirls of dishwater,
...

My Windstream Official Telephone Directory
contains no listing for Soul Mate,
business or residential.
...

He wrote a simple poem, the kind best read alone;
no pretences, or awkward dictionary interruptions.

But, one line went around in an intriguing way.
...

Ghost Of A Blue World


I dreamed I was flying
...

I dream I am walking on a high swaying bridge.
It is made of old wood, like sun bleached barn siding,
more visible in evening light with splintered edges
forming deep shadows of grey and blue.
...

In this green forest, there is a sweet dampness;
blossoms dropping jewels of spent raindrops.
On this path, soft with cushion of moss and fallen leaves,
my world whispers passion with the voice of a lover.
...

Somewhere, in the damp mold
and earthen rot of a Georgia landfill,
all the old pages of her calendars
are steadily feeding worms.
...

Cherokee poets named this place Meadow.
People wonder why. It is not a flat garden,
but a curved valley of green and waters.
See how the Blue Ridge surrounds.
...

We called it Hornet Island.
Everyone knew the danger
of bees.
You and I, the brave ones,
...

You see me turn in front of the long mirror,
adjust my skirt, frown at the reflection and sigh.
Knowing I never take compliments for honest truth,
you offer anyway. You tell me I am beautiful.
...

Fifty years ago, my sister and I raced across a long, high porch,
jumped off the end to fly across daffodils and old barking dogs.

That was before my sister fell.
...

Some days, all we can do to see a wider world
is lie quietly in the sun, faces curved to sky,
watching leaves drop color and die, as clouds
paint a bleached collage of our other places.
...