Blackman's Point

Credit to Robin, from Your Daily Dose, who reminded me a while back how important writing poems is to me sometimes.  I wrote a few this spring, two of which I actually submitted for publication.  They weren't selected...so I'll publish one here.  Recognize this.  The piece is sad, yes, but a release for me, and I am glad to have written it in honor of my sister, who we lost in May.

 

Blackman's Point

Not what you planned

when you maxed out

credit cards

to buy

a trailer home

one row back

from the sea.

Monthly interest

secured a shush

and slurry ocean,

the rain refrain

of pebbles,

awning flap-ups,

goosebumps

off the water,

green-head curses

from the marshland

behind.

All year long

you counted to Spring,

for packing the car,

climbing grey-stained steps,

unlocking the door,

built-in table, bed,

airplane bath,

the beagle from

the next door RV

whimpering at dawn.

Even tarnished

by chemo,

the trailer wheels

rusted from salt,

you thrilled

at the purchase,

never wanting

to leave

the sun, earth,

cinnamon smell

of beach plum roses,

a high tide line

tumbled with stone.

During the last winter,

we rinsed pink pails of bile,

tempted you with

delicacies you could

no longer chew,

cringed at the erosion

of your flesh,

and still you plucked

at the bedspread,

planning summer,

refusing to concede to

any finish, but to

make your way

to the trailer,

and so, in the end,

we took you to

the white beach light.

Poem for Susan

We speak the language of stone.

Quartzite, granite, pumice, slate,
the eternal rake

of tide
and sea.

While we walk,
you point your cane,

bottle caps, wires,
the rusted intestines

of lobster traps,
I fetch them,

ridding the beach of

unwanted accessories.

At home, you pile stones
in plastic containers,

by the sink,
on the hutch,

in a box stored
deep in the basement.

Now, you solicit requests,

and though
I remain voiceless,

you know.

“Get the black stone,” you say.

We bring samples to your bedside,

malachite, jasper,
and a composite,

disparate forms,
fused together.

Just as I realize
these stones 

and love,

will last forever,

again you point.

This time, grey,
etched with striations.

A heart rock, folded into itself,

pocket-sized,
with a hollow

just the right shape
to rub at with my thumb.