Poetry

She The Beatles sang, “There are places I remember” while some are gone, none remain like childhood places Her house by the ponds at the cusp of the world is a golden place Doors to Narnia through curious closets dungeon rooms in the basement a pool table where I learned to play left-handed and cousins like brothers hiding in the attic of the barn The house still stands but it’s empty now without her She who cut my hair cornsilk curls on the beauty shop floor who sang my name more sweetly than it’s been sung before or since who opened my eyes when we sat by the bay window to welcome the world “Good morning sun.” “Good morning ponds.” “Good morning birds.” “Good morning sky.” who fried frog legs in a skillet at one o’clock in the morning a dream of hot oil and animal meat and of her, bathed in incandescence who put my grandfather’s lucky buckeye in my hand because she knew I would need something to hold on to who visited my home in North Carolina sat at my table drinking decaf coffee and telling me stories About Irwin, her father who traveled in the long ago west to places I’ve been About Alma, her mother who was a teacher like me And how present or not they walk with us and in us as she walks in me now