Poetry By
Cathy Douglas
Published on: 12/13/2012
Her Epitaph
Call her Betty. She wore pastel suits with matching pumps, her rice paper skin scented with lilac water. She always had a spare tissue in her purse, a kind word for everyone she met, and a penny for the child who picked up her hat when that silly wind tried to blow it away. She told us we were wonderful when we were ordinary, treated everyone like sons and daughters. She could bake a cherry pie, repair a zipper, stop a run in her nylons with a dab of clear nail polish. She never balanced a checkbook and scarcely drove until her husband passed, when she picked these things up too; afterwards, she taxied women who didn't have cars to doctors, interviews, and their children's school. When she departed, she left the echo of encouraging words, along with the hint of lilac water.
Published on: 12/12/2012
Idea of Cuba
line of empties on the south window catching sun Cuba on my mind squint through amber bottle lenses nodding off sense a half-dreamt soul beach if I could go to a lighter place take off for one lousy week I'd smash those bottles against the wall my dad made a life of breaking bottles and other things his reflection in the glass pot can't obliterate cigarettes are almost worse AA just pisses me off somebody tried to stick sobriety on the wall maybe it was me no prayer as serene as a fifth of Smirnoff's when alone I pray to "nobody home" but those empties keep on winking somebody has to make me stop STOP until my Cuba comes
Published on: 12/11/2012
Afterglow
Lying in tender afternoon sunshine we used to look at each other's hands— never got tired of tracing the lines. I still feel your calluses, built up over years of pressing and prying at sharp electronic parts. I've forgotten the stories you told me about capacitors, microchips and motherboards, but my nerves hold the memory of gently bearing down on thickened skin, of running a finger down the flow of bicycle grease in your cuticle. You were fascinated by the garden dirt ground deep under my fingerprints, and I told you stories about my scars— this one left over from a weekend of weatherstripping, that one from a rogue microfiche machine. I always did love your hands, and the strong arms that connected them to your heart. Now my fingers are left to bear their own bicycle grease, traces in black along the rivers and terraces of weather and workworn hands. Almost as if I'd buried them in your ashes, and could never, never wash you away.
Published on: 12/6/2010
Field of Broken Glass
In our life together, all the cancers have been figurative until now -- bad choices, bad ideas, bad luck -- shards we could toss into Old Man Time, and his soothing rush would smooth bright edges. Now cornered, we face this field of broken glass, where no river will ready our feet for the abrasions. Time hardens, frozen by a word.
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