December 2015
I grew up in Pennsylvania, just south of the Appalachian mountains. Our family often visited our Irish coal mining relatives in Schuylkill County. I earned an M.S. in Urban and Regional Planning at the University of Wisconsin, and have remained in the Midwest ever since. I currently teach high school African and Asian Cultural Studies, and am the advisor for the school poetry club and the District One break dancers. Some of my poems can be read on Verse Wisconsin Online. http://versewisconsin.org/issue113.html
December’s Dream
You glance at me for a moment
across our worn wooden table
with its gouges and water stains
in this room of late night freezer pizza
and piled bills we both inhabit
then push back your chair and start to rise
if you could only take a rest from your task
of nailing plywood over doorways
one hundred thousand nails
over nineteen years
this mansion bought cheap
the thought of us living
beyond this kitchen
scares me, too
the parlor that once held the dead
we did not know
fragile as spring’s blue egg
front stairs that heave their weight
in walnut wood
under a cacophony of stained glass light
kaleidoscope of color
frozen against the grain
bedroom of golden canopy damask
windows lofty as a ship set sail
your eyes now widen
in silent panicked plea
it’s late December and we inch our way
back to the sun
each day I count the mounting seconds
on my chalkboard
the Greek girl has long since flung open her box
of pestilence and grief
my own watchful disease
come to nest in this northern land
while needle-toothed hope
crouches yet in its shadowy corner
blinks up at winter’s angled sun
several weeks ago I planted
dormant bulbs for forbidden rooms
and hallways we might have roamed
tulips for a window’s mosaic dance
daffodils of bedroom luster
snow drops for a parlor
come spring, neighbors will praise me
you will pull up in your pickup truck
back from the Lake Church Tavern
hammer and nails gripped tight in hand
walk with staggering lurch
around my flowers
think me a good wife
Spice Cake
We tilt our faces to the chill wind
the sun
and the hawks
cruising invisible updrafts
my mother recites poetry
standing above me
with her full lips
wears a worn jacket
color of fawn
her short chestnut hair
gleams of dusk and twirls
through my father’s silence
his hands quiet in the deep
embrace of pockets
until it is time
for the double layer spice cake
eaten with cold fingers
tasting of smooth butterscotch radiance
and the full autumn clove of leaves
baked in the early morning shadow
of our row house
with its narrow kitchen
and non-existent counter space
Matriarch
By then an old lady, she stepped
up to the front door in sturdy heels
train-travelled
with mauve-colored valise in hand
perfumed herself into the living room
mink coat set carefully aside
then reaching for the big spoon
in the kitchen
just in time for final preparations
to feed an introverted rabble
of unrealized potential
always the lawn last mowed
our holiday dinner steered straight
her steady hand laced with veins
gravy made in the roasting pan
with caramelized scraps
we ladled over everything
©2015 Sylvia Cavanaugh