November 2016
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 an advisor to breakdancers and poets. I’m also involved with the Sheboygan chapter of 100,000 Poets for Change. A Pushcart Prize nominee, my poems have appeared Midwest Prairie Review, The Journal of Creative Geography, Gyroscope Review,and elsewhere. I just published a chapbook, Staring Through My Eyes, with Finishing Line Press.
Hmong Break Dancers
Whirl into story
fashioned anew
each time to the count of six
script me in at the edge
of the cypher
I’m the black accent
of one-handed
ball toss
against ranging color
sometimes they thread
the ancient songs
at night
on the bus ride home
they bear gifts of chocolate
and forgive my awkward
shyness
when the New Year arrives
silver-coined vests jangle
softly
to the careful consideration of feet
moving through the buffet line
while back at the long table
bottles of Sriracha wait
First published in Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets 65th Anniversary Poetry Quilt
What’s in a Name?
Our grandfather’s funeral
my brother and I teen-slouched in stilted pew
awkward young sinners washed up like silt
drifted in on the clouded swill of our parent’s faith
we had but one sure belief that day
which we held with the certainty of Latin
that our grandfather’s middle name
was Mephistopheles
but why such a name
I had sometimes demanded
my grandfather’s reply a faraway shrug
to echo the question
nested in his vague voicing of the
“I don’t know”
like the mystery of faith itself
some things are best believed
when not explained
after all, I told myself, his
parents were mountain-dwelling
immigrants plagued by banshee sobs
pillows clutched a cautious night
sleepless Appalachian town where a name
might be a charm, a banner
or a threat
so how could the priest have gotten our grandfather’s
name so wrong?
at his funeral
Matthew
surely a mistake
story permeated our lives
like raucous laughter from a downstairs room
along with the sure knowledge that the devil
would try and try again
to make a deal
dank subterranean mines delivered our grandfather
to the red door of the church
where a virgin’s androgynous heart gulps love
like air
feeds everlasting flame
I always harbored the suspicion
that the devil’s bargain should get my nod
if only the story could make me fly
Mephistopheles — he got us good
but then we should have known all along
because our grandfather positively sneered
at the truth
First published by Milwaukee Irish Fest as the winner of the 2015 Donn Goodwin Prize
©2016 Sylvia Cavanaugh
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