Death in the Afterglow

She lies spent, wet,

after a crazy round of neon sex

with rooms available blinking inside her head.

Blink.

BLINK.

Reaching for a cigarette,

she momentarily forgets

that she no longer smokes

until her hand returns

from the bedside stand . . .

Holding only emptiness,

she wonders, What the hell!

Had she been drinking earlier? At the bar?

Jose? Patron? Does it really matter which one?

Throb!

THROB.

Her juices pulse to the beat.

Blink.

BLINK.

Her dull heart thuds

drumming waves of blood

through her engorged head.

Her body is lead.

Ping!

PING!

Her conscience rings like sonar

sounding depths in an ocean channel

while waves of satisfaction crest

against the beachhead of her pelvic floor.

Darkly, through the looking-glass, she sees.

A warm body twines 'round hers

but it does not belong

to a matching silver band

like the one adorning

the third finger of her left hand.

Blink.

BLINK.

A child is born every seven seconds

according to the U.S. Census.

A death occurs every thirteen.

How odd.

She thinks

as neon lights

blink.

BLINK

Strayed

by t.o. crow
July 19, 2008

Love leaned
then snapped
us back
like the spring
of an old screen door
Back
to hearth
and home
Back
to lukewarm

STORMS

Suddenly,
Rain
fell in
torrents
leaving behind
the Scent
of slow
DECAY
along with the 
PROMISE
of new
beginnings

Heart STUNG

Does he ever feel her hand in his

or see her in a passing face
or wish that it were her embrace

that lays him down at night?

Does he look up at the stars above

and think of the girl who he once loved
and of all the dreams and plans they'd made

before being swept apart by fate?

Does she slip into his dreams unbid?
Does he feel her arms? Her legs? Her kiss?
Her heart thumping wildly against his chest

as if it were Summer of '65?

And LOVE?

Oh, how love was sweet!

in his '59 Impala's red-leather seats
on a cul-de-sac to a yet-named street,
to a Carolina girl and her Georgia guy -

whose hand's imprint she feels in hers

as though it were yesterday -

So young,
that girl whose heart was stung
by a Tech "Yellow Jacket" wearing madras plaid.

And although years and youth have passed
that sting still lasts . . .
and lasts . . .
and Lasts

Lover's Lullabye

t.o. crow

Whisper me your lies,
let them disguise reality
with all their little bends and twists
until reality no longer for me exists.
Before we embrace and sweet salt taste,

Sing me a lover's lullabye
about sun and moon and starry skies.

Whisper me your lies . . .

Pretty

t.o. crow

They never called her pretty so how was she to know?
They teased her as a "fatty." She couldn't fit small clothes.

She could wrestle with the best of boys and pin them to the ground
until her "nubs" began to sprout when 'tween time rolled around.
There was always something wrong with her - nothing ever right -
The only comfort that she found was on her blue, Schwinn bike.
There, she channeled big, tough "Jim" who followed every dream.
She could fly a plane or fight in war or any skill you named.

She was strong and kind and loving but that seemed to matter not
for they focused on her "tummy" her other traits forgotten.
Each day she waked she had to face her Mama's consternation
and Granny often chimed right in comparing her to cousins:
"So tiny, feminine - petite," she said. Their clothes are not size dozen!"

So, what was she to do but slouch? To stoop her shoulders low?
And from that purchase see the world and not be noticed so.
Her vanishing tactics failed to work, added misery to her pain.
She ate cake each day to compensate and lost more self esteem.
More scorn for that she did attract, which hurt her deeper still,
and the girl who once was pretty inside herself withdrew.

She gave up trying to please them all and into depression sank.
No one noticed the sponge she'd become or the negative she drank.
They never acknowledged her intrinsic worth so she internalized
all the "bad" they labeled her with and carried it through her life.

That little girl that I once knew so very long ago
was really very pretty but how was she to know?


Feb. 05/2008

Revelations

by Trudy Osteen Crow

It is his third attempt at a four-in-hand

on his red power tie. “It's silk,”
he explains offhandedly. “It got wet.”

Mute, She nods knowingly.

(Though, in truth, she knows nothing of wet silk)

One more effort and the knot is satisfactory.

The red noose is tightened, tugged twice,

then patted into position

against his starched dress shirt.

He gazes into the mirror - toward the future -

while she gazes into his white-shirted back

and remembers her baptism in the murky waters

of a now nameless Alabama river.

The muddy current snatches

at the white innocence

of her 10-year-old's dress as

the minister admonishes “Trust in Jeeesus!”

then covers her face with a folded white handkerchief

and tilts her back into the silty water -

"I baptise you in the name of

The Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost!"

She hears as she struggles for air

and is suddenly righted.

The congregation's solemn “Amens" greet her

as she rises and sludges toward them -

her soiled dress clinging fiercely

to the goosey flesh of her developing body.

She shivers, seeking cover from their scrutiny-

the first fires of passion quelled by the chill reality

of the river's water.

“. . . after a brief goodbye,” He says

drawing her back to the present.

He turns to face her and the white of his shirt

is muddied by the red silk of his tie.

She shivers, as he tucks with finality,

a folded square of white handkerchief

into his pocket.

Gwendolyn Brooks Poetry Award Winner

Original: 1985

Revision: Nov, 2009

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