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.