She Braids My Hair

Firm bristles find my forehead and pull, away and down to a small girl's waist.
Again and again until all wandering doubters are collected and herded into the fold.
Over one ear and then the other fine fretful side flyers are gathered in,
one under-stroke from the nape of my neck to my crown brings all the little lost
strays into her opposite hand.
There they are smoothed , consoled, and held together, warm and safe from the chaos
of a scared little girl's world.
She wraps it all in a protective band tha twill do its best to keep everything together until
we are reunited at the end of the day.
Deft slender fingers find the places they know by heart, separating the fold-three equal parts
and continuing the morning ritual.
The begin the get-ready dance, a small tug here, another there, a moments rest to re-smooth
or a slight pause for some outward interruption.
The dance continues, massaging my small scalp and reminding me of
my name...my place...my belonging.
The refrain repeats its song
Over-under-smooth and hold
over-under smooth and hold
Finally she reaches the small of my back and again a band is wrapped around the fold.
One final touch, a pink ribbon, tied at the top,a bow, perfectly horizontal of course.
I know now I can face the dog that barks on my walk to school
and the re-haired mean girl who sits in front of me.

She braids my hair and I know I am loved.

White Hibiscus (revised poetry)

They line the path to my Mothers door, fallen corpses
petals glistening white in the sun, now turn to beige
spilled tea on the sunbaked sidewalk
Turning, twisting,they spiral in on themselves
protecting  glorious red centers...pollen wombs.

Curling edges like lace, gently folding inward,
a thousand tiny wrinkles
Skin of Grandmothers, frail petal skin arms,
lonely prsoners of softly decaying bodies
Red in the center, reminder of youth's passion
wombs holding memories of babies, never again to open.
Crushed berry wine stains on shriveled arms.

I collect them and gingerly preserve each one,
more fall each day, each hour, my house overflows.
A cemetary of Deathly elegance.
I wrap them in silk and tissue and place them in
polished wood boxes.
Sublime tombs for Hibiscus ... flower coffins.

 I wrap and unwrap them again and again, marveling
at their exquisite sad erosion.
My forlorn collection of melancholic grace.

I think of my Grandmother, my Mother, my self.

Binaca

He tasted like Binaca, strong, bitter,clove-like, a breath drop in a brown bottle always kept in his jeans pocket. Every day at rest time when we were supposed to read, write letters or nap he would whistle to me, a sweet bird-like tune that beckoned me to sneak out of the bunk and meet him at the canoes in the dock house. There with the greatest of caution and trepidation we would nuzzle down between the seats of a floating canoe in a secret teenage embrace.
We were both 15 away at Methodist Youth Camp held on the campgrounds on a big central Florida lake. He was tall and skinny and covered with freckles, giving a sort of awkward impression like a goofy half grown giraffe. We were both shy and avoided the more boisterous and popular crowd .Most boys were aggressive, pushy, not at all something I wanted any part of but the far away sad yearning in his pale eyes told me that I had nothing to fear.
And so we would meet behind the dock house, eager to explore our newly found responses and taste the salt of skin, to touch foriegn opposite gender shapes and find soft wet places we had not known before. My skin buzzed all day with a vibration of desire, waiting for his fingers his hands , his mouth.
I was sure I was doomed to hell. While other kids were praying to get to heaven the only place I wanted to be was a cool  canoe in a dark boat  house where the rest of the world disappeared. It was a secret, hidden in shadow, dank, the only sound, a soft ripple of the tea colored lake against the blue aluminum boats.
 To this day, the smell of cloves and the tannic taste of a freshwater lake water are forever fused in my mind. They will transport me  back to the gentle rocking of a shady canoe, a tender time of shedding childhood and the wonderous discovery my own budding womanhood.

My Tormentor

Where is my soul, my faith, my reason?
What happened to my bright dream?
I gave it all to you for the promise of uncharted love and adventure.
In return you became bored and threw it all away with broken drumsticks.
You grow and I cling, vicariously needing your hope.
My need equaled only by your resentment.
Haven thrown out all purpose and sanity, I am left a hollow shell, my guts lined with infection, I ache and crave the relief of your touch.
Survival now is my goal, staying alive my only identity.
I lay on the shelf beside magazines, records, drumsticks, hoping to be the possession you reach for.
Your aspirations become my obsession.
Your attention the only nutrition for my starvation.

The stillness of night surrounds me and quiets the throbbing of rotting emptiness
Darkness distorts vision and relieves my eyes, swollen and red from eternal hysteriical tears.
I struggle to remain awake never to give in to the lull of sleep.

There I again find my dreams, wrinkled and torn like wadded up tissues, I open them and again become my own.
I am fearful of the peace of this slumbre for I know that it only lives in darkness and the sun will rise again only to blast away my clouds of contentment,
memory of a dream that was
Again the light will burn my eyes with reality and pierce my wounds with the familiar pain of your indifference.
Again I will seek the safety of your arms only to find the pain of your violent mood.
Again I will find myself despicable and fight to regain your gaze.

written to RS in 1975

Drummer Boy Valentine

You sit looking at strange symbols, a language of its own,
a world I cannot enter.
I watch as you concentrate, forever trying to hold back desire.
We sit only a few feet apart yet I am invisable for your thoughts are dancing to paradiddles and there is no space for the girl sitting in the same room.
The silence is broken only by the consistency of your metronome as it ticks in syncronicity with the beat of my heart
Once again I am amazed by your intensity, and the aesthetic of your rhythmn rushes with the pulsing of my blood.
The beauty of your strife for perfection enforces my belief in your ambition
but I know that I am alone and I wait for the abandonment that surely will come with your success.
I know that I am alone with only the beating of my own heart.
Oh Drummer boy, let me travel with you as you soar to your dreams, for my love longs for your embrace.

written in 1974  to RS

Father

There is a man in my life and although he is not large in stature, he is a giant to me.
When I was unsure of him, he gave me time.
When I was confused, he smiled with understanding.
When I was rebellious, he gave me room to grow
When I called out for help, his willing hand remained close by.
When I was burdened, he took responsibility
When I was doubted, he gave me trust
When I falied at my endeavors, he believed in me still
When I was afraid , he held my hand
When I lonely and sick, he sat with me
When I needed it most, he gave me his love.

Ther is a man in my life and though our blood is not the same,
He is a Father to me.