Plain as, well, a mouse,
but without the squeak
and voraciousness,
you quietly taught a child
whose mother couldn’t wait
to dump her on your stoop
what love was like,
Quiet.
All while ironing like a crazywoman
to make the rent. Break was stirring
stone soup and praying a ceiling fan
would abracadabra onto the ceiling
of your square little kitchen
where heels had gouged
linoleum melted last summer.
Sweat keeps beading and running
into your eyes and 5-and-10 glasses
you can’t take time to sipe. Slap
goes the iron. Slap, slap, slap,
slap. You stop to sprinkle water
from a CocaCola bottle.
hisssssss hisssssss hisssssssss
T h i n k your eyes are blue.
T h i n k you are on the short side.
T h i n k you own two everyday dresses,
airing out the one you don’t have on now.
T h i n k you think in secret.
K n o w you make time to teach me
how to roll dough and sprinkle
cinnamon and men like my daddy’s shirts.
K n o w n o w you were in for a loss
so unbearable, you surrendered
what was left of your life.
K n o w you taught me
what love was like.
Quiet.
Phyllis Jean Green’s
poetry, fiction and nonfiction have seen
print since 1986. In addition to a biography [Diverse City Press,’99], an
electronic collection [Ze Books, 2002], and the editorship of a collection
[Mixing Cement by NY-San Francisco poet Peter Tomassi, Thunder Rain, 2k],
she has hundreds of credits for short works in up to 200 publications, including The Pedestal Magazine, The Moonwort Review, Sensations Magazine,
Mooncrossed, Skyline Magazine, Point of Life [lst pr], Poetry in the Arts,
Shadow Poetry [2nd pr.&2 hm’s], Snow Monkey, L’Intrigue ["favorite poet"],
Voices Net, SPQuill, etc. Her memberships include Friday Noon Poets, NCPS,
NCWN and AWP. She recently read with John Amen and Sara Claytor.