The American Beauty at Sunset
He liked to be called “Daddy.” And in his rose garden
The same petalled, arrogant aristocrats that bloomed
In his brother’s award-winning garden in Florida.
Giving their names, he led me, wondering little upstart myself,
Around the world of worship, the mulch, the patient picking off
Of Japanese beetles, the lethal sprays we tried not to inhale
(But who knew about such things then?)
The fertilizing feedings, all patient panoply attached to flowery faces.
In awkward attempts at courtship of an impatient child, he would say,
“Here! This is your flower—the American Beauty—the deep pinky-red;
That’s you, you’re an American Beauty.”
But I, wayward and disinclined, said, “No, I want to be this one!
What’s this called? This yellowy-orange with orange-red edges?”
“Oh no!” he said every time, tailoring truth to our ritual. “That’s the Sunset Rose!”
You’re too young, your life is still at daybreak, dear, the dawn!”
And I, chanting, “Sunset! Sunset! Sunset!” stomped along flowery fortresses
Just shorter than I, for that was the game, the game we played,
As if two teams might be declared, one a home team, the other not,
The American Beauty at Sunset. Wishes have a way of being overheard,
Whether capricious charms or not. Before I was in my teens, he was dead,
His roses, too, no one to tend them; he was overcome by sunset,
And I without anyone to call me an American beauty at all.
Of Drunk Turkeys and Dead Squirrels
The women of the family, dour about their daily chores
Excited the male fabling tendency: the women did odd things,
Were strangely uninformed where it could count.
The men, while celebrating fine cookery, clean living,
All the commonplace female virtues of the time,
Enjoyed twitting in story and tale the women who served them
Without complaint.
On one side of the family were the famed female grape wine makers,
The ones not au courant of wildlife outside, who
Threw their used (alcohol-infused) grape skins over the hill
When they were done distilling the precious wine.
And how should they know that a flock of hungry turkeys
Would land there in the night, gobbling up grape skins
Then passing out stone cold, like a passel of drunks?
Well, the women only knew the next morning, they came out to find
Seeming dead turkeys, feathers a prize for the plucking,
Since, as the wise women counseled each other,
Turkeys already dead weren’t safe to eat—well, what if
They were diseased?
Did they not feel a response as they plucked
And plucked, happy to have a whole flight of feathers for pillows
And tick mattresses? No sign of hearts slowly beating,
No stray turkey call or protest?
But they plucked, and left the turkeys outside for the men to bury.
What sent the men into belts of laughter the next morning
Was the sight of thirty or so naked turkeys waddling and calling in distress,
And the women might scold the joke but weren’t allowed to live it down.
There story ends. And at suppers and get-togethers, the men
On the family’s other side had their own “wrong-headed females” tale to tell,
Though shorter. Tale was, two women, sisters, were chasing a squirrel
Away from a picnic it was marauding. One bravely drew the derringer
Her husband had got her for protection from local thieves,
Lately the invaders of homes and barns. She shot once, twice,
But only wounded the warring rodent, and he sent up unholy shrieks,
Darting in and out around his would-be killer’s feet.
This made the women cry, and grieve. Taking counsel of each other,
They picked up two sticks and tried to beat him to death
So that he might die more quickly and cease his hideous howls.
Male amusement, female fussing at the story, our ancestors’ ancient bonds.
When You’ve Got to Go There
“Uncle Porter,” the old relatives, sedate but careful,
Gossiped to my mother in front of me, “was a Pinkerton Man.”
“He went to the door one day,” they glanced over at me,
To where I was hugging Aunt Cora’s kitten around its neck for dear life,
Then spoke again, soft words, hard meanings, “and he left and didn’t come back.”
The kitten mewed, and I put it down, watching it dart, fleas and all,
Back under Aunt Cora’s outside porch. Crouching down,
I could see a green, unrepentant, unwinking stare looking out my way.
“Later, about twenty years later,” I heard behind me on the porch,
In hushed tones to which I found myself now listening, too,
“He came back one day. Just out of the clear blue!”
My mother expressed the expected awe and surprise,
Though every time we saw Aunt Cora, we heard something of Uncle Porter.
“And he walked up and knocked at Loreen’s door, and your Aunt Loreen just said,
‘Porter,’ and held the door open for him.”
“I guess they were very funny people, not like us,” responded my mother.
“Well, you know, Porter drank,” Aunt Cora said, mentioning the mild scandal.
She had signed the pledge at fifteen,
And never took more than a taste at evening
Of her own homemade parsnip wine.
“But Loreen wasn’t one to hold grudges. And anyway,” Aunt Cora wound up,
Putting the point to the discussion with her usual resort
To “old ettered sayings,”
“Home is a place where, when you’ve got to go there, they’ve got to take you in.”
Comments