Affrilachian Literature Independent Study with Frank X. Walker summer 2011
Seashore The man with the large hat Had lit the candles And said alms and sang Hymns about God And whatnot He had left them Burning and melting And the candles Flickered and fought For air while The atmosphere Staled and weird People walked in Painfully walking and Begging for Forgiveness But the man with The hat was already Gone so all they Had were the Candles So they focused On the light while Their pupils Shrunk Into tiny Beads of black But the candles Did not like It there Where light Only filtered Through glass Images of Jesus So the candles Melted down And ran Away Toward the Seashore Home It’s the warmth; that feeling you can’t describe, like describing pink, or blue, or maroon. That feeling finds you and follows you and shows up in surprise locations. It comes when you are hugged, when you inhale spring, when someone smiles or brushes away the tears that were pouring through your heart because you were alone and forgot that home is everywhere. Home finds you within the pages of an aged book in the middle of a hidden aisle in a library, or at the apex of a park swing set. Home is warmth flowing inside you, rushing to your extremities, speaking in a hushed voice of quivering excitement. Home is grass, prickling your back, staining your jeans, leaving souvenirs to remind you that you were once home and you can always be home. Scents: the aroma of fresh pine needles being rubbed until they fall off dark green conifers, sweet lavender, rhubarb apple pie being baked in the oven. Tastes of sweetness and warmth, cool collectedness, dissolving on your tongue, but lasting in your mind to remind you. The warmth of a blanket on a frigid day, heavy down, fireplaces…smooth soft skin. Home is inside, that feeling of sustainment and peace you get when you realize nothing matters, because nothing really does.
The Mass
I was the fat baby, The one who ate a whole Lobster and went back for Seconds, thirds, even. I was a golden brown With frizzy hair And a gapped toothed Smile that brighten Days. I would garden With my parents Or pretend to garden Like babies do: Imitate adults. And one day I was out Pretending to garden, Baby sized rake and spade, Prepared to plant seeds Of herbs like basil, Mint, and sage My namesake, when I saw a fuzzy black Crowd in a hole. It was a bouncy, Jumbling, moving mass, Separate creatures Creating one. And I reached out my Pudgy finger and poked The monster in the Hole. And, the monster Started creeping up My arm, A black mass of biting Individuals carrying White eggs of their spawn. I shook my arm, But they stayed, crawling. I jumped, I stumbled, I flung My arm about, hollering for Help because they would Not go away. My daddy ran and Grabbed the hose And sprayed my Arm. “They are just ants, Honey,” he said. But I cried all the same And I still do. |
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