January 2023
Bio Note: I am endlessly fascinated by human behavior, how we waver between darkness and light. Recurring images in my writing are wind, birds, mirrors, shadows, and their effects on or interactions with small-town persons (I grew up in various small towns and live in one now). I write poetry, monologues, and plays.
I am the ill-kept secret,
a scribbled note tucked into your pocket.
I am smokey scotch,
a clove cigarette smoldering,
a Tiffany ankle bracelet,
the hieroglyph
on the inside of your thigh.
I am the thirteenth fairy at the party,
the shadow in a sheer blouse
and leather slit skirt,
my voice all purr and claws.
I am the perfume you never forget.
I remember everything about us.
Like the moon I go dark
but never really disappear.
To the wren with the loud song
who wakes me each morning,
I am sorry, sorry, so so sorry,
for what you don't know is coming:
the maples on the patch of land
you fly from, whose orange-gold leaves
are now scattering in the wind, will be
dismembered this spring.
So too the other elders,
those who harbor the flutter of sparrows,
the red-bellied woodpecker,
cardinals, mockingbirds, jays,
from whose branches squirrels leap,
in whose shade mice and rabbits hide
from coyote, the trickster's shadow,
and the shrubs, scrub grass, volunteer saplings:
all will be gone by nesting time,
the ground churned up, scraped and leveled,
asphalted over. In their stead a clutch
of beige four-storey apartments.
What we still have we offer to you.
The hundred-year-old pecan trees in our back yard
have room, the dogwoods, holly,
bay laurel, crape myrtles, and our neighbors'
azaleas, junipers, tulip tree.
We're putting up more birdbaths and feeders,
planting new trees.
Starting with the first shovelful of dirt,
I'll dedicate this work to you
and to those who will come after we're gone.
©2023 Debra Kaufman
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