Victoria Hunter
THE LAST TIME I HAD TO SEE YOU
You sat them on an icy oak table–
the package of my father’s ashes–
like an old-fashioned box cake.
Your dusty, branch-colored fingers
gripped a pile of pearly white paper sheets
with the profiles of people you were to keep
until their relatives were ready
to let God keep them or send them
to the next place they should be.
Then I swore I could see my father’s ashes
throbbing through the box.
I thought he preferred
to be with drunks than with me.
I never got one call from him on a holiday.
I never got to know the strength
of his heart’s soul in a close embrace.
Why should I care about his ashes?
I remember the room space, an opened box
in the evening in a basement.
I remember I sat, stiff as new chopsticks.
My heart was cake, sunken in the center.
My eyes were acorns in a puddle.
Suddenly you said, “You can come back
for them another time if you like,”
and then drew on one of the sheets
the cost for holding remains of
a poor black man you do not know.
A NOTE TO THE ROSE THAT WON’T RETURN
Didn't I love you from one end to another
exactly how you were created
so wild and wanting all the attention all the time
And weren't we together constantly
moving in sync all the time
and can you remember how I tried to control you
hushed the cry of your rusty chain links
and bent you forward and down in half
to see how far you can leave me without breaking
Oh love I want to wake up inside you again
and put my dreams in you again
I want to fly again with you into tomorrow
I want to find you in the early morning
cold and tangled around yourself
I want to climb inside your soul and wipe away
the puddle of cold rain in your heart
WHAT I CAN TELL YOU NOW ABOUT MY MOTHER
She was a treasure like the American Eagle
or a gem that belonged to our grandparents
There were moments she was in love
with her spirit and moved unstoppable
like a pearl on a waterslide
When I was not yet able to imagine
seeing gray in my hair
or imagine feeling my body mad like a bug
given one good smack
she had a great figure one possibly that GOD made
after daydreaming her
I always thought one day my father
would discover her
a dream sitting on bark
in a breath of blue sky with the sunset
blooming in her eyes
When we weren't so aged that it showed
in also how well we operated
and we had not yet collected memories the residue of coals
we sat outside before any petals
were completely awake
Mother was one of my favorite companions
more than a playful note
she was magic reborn magic you find
between two friends
united after many years apart
never wanting to deny one another attention
but did because their new lives said so
Once at a campsite beneath gold oil lamplight
I've admired her structure
that soon became harsh as the texture of my hair
in a mean winter
You know mother is still here dear
though collecting dust like things
we just don't need anymore
not even to just hold a second
You know dear soon she will be chaos
not like rush hour traffic but like a home madness is ruling
after it has been locked away for a lifetime