right before her eyes two days after her diagnosis.
The way the sun reflected off the sequins
was ethereal and she proclaimed the event
another sign from God, the first having occurred
in 1974 when a pink rose blossomed in October
to foretell her pregnancy with Isabelle, the answer
to fervent prayers and hard bargaining with the Almighty.
Some thought her crazy
but wearing the radiant heels to chemo
gave her courage and when she told the boy
with the baseball cap that she had killed
a witch with her house and they were her reward,
he giggled so hard the nurse thought he was convulsing
and no one was surprised when she wore them
to her grave. The night of her funeral, I dreamed
she kicked them off in heaven. I watched the shoes
drift to earth and perch like two yellow sparrows
atop a road sign on Route 85.
Appears in Broken Bridge Review, September 2006
Aria at Low Tide
She closed her eyes
when she sang.
Things she could not see-
opal moon pasted
on black night,
empty shoes
on the sand.
She raised her voice to God
when she sang.
Things she could not hear-
the whispered pleas,
wind in the trees.
Her voice filled with ocean
when she sang.
Things she could not say-
I will come and go
with the tides,
I will crash at your feet.
Lillian was in the Habit of Having Her Hair Done Once a Week
but that was before her mind came unhinged.
Now her hair fans the pillow,
no longer disguises disordered thoughts.
Stale grey quiet rushes out the door
when I enter her room.
“I am your lawyer, Lillian, for the competency
hearing, to protect your rights.
Today the court will decide whether
you need a conservator to manage your affairs.”
That’s nice, she says. The words hover
with the smell of near-death that hugs the room.
“Can you tell me what day it is, Lillian?”
She replies:
I know the sun and the moon. Their strong
light wrestles the darkness that visits me
like strangers in long overcoats,
casting shadows in my mind, shadows
that eat my dreams until I scream. I fly
my words like kites on string, above the shadows,
so they will not vanish. I have no use for day
or night; there’s only light and dark now.
The words Lillian launches on her kite-
string become entangled in unpinned
hair as she turns away from the morning light.
On a yellow legal pad I note that Lillian
fails to correctly report that it is Wednesday.
Appears in Angel Face Poetry Journal, Spring 2006
Reflection
Four years ago I came across the small leather notebook which contained the few poems I wrote when I was in my early twenties. I chuckled at the naiveté evident in some of them but as I read through the tiny volume I recognized my voice. My voice. I suddenly realized how hidden it had become underneath the layers of my life: mother, wife, attorney, consumer. Soon after, I began to read and write poetry in earnest. Poetry has become for me like an old magical mirror in the attic into which I can step and where I am able to continue my journey, while leaving my image on the glass.
Kahil Gibran wrote: “Poetry is a deal of joy and pain and wonder, with a dash of the dictionary.” For me, poetry is a way of looking at the world with the intent of acknowledging both the sublime and the ordinary. Like music and the other arts, poetry is an antidote to the drowning of our spirits in materialism and/or apathy. Ideally, a good poem nudges the reader to reflect, if only for a moment.
I am privileged to share these poems with Judith’s Table.
Julia
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