Brandy Clark- Three Poems

Scattered

I wanted to keep her rose-colored urn,

sit it on the coffee table in the midst

of my old newspapers, dirty dishes, and

outdated magazines with smiling

celebrities on the glossy covers.

I wanted to sit, have a cup of coffee,

and converse with her ashes, perhaps

take a spoonful and mix them into

the scalding liquid so I might taste her,

the earthy dust to which she’d been reduced.

I wanted to scoop my hands into her expanse,

sift her through my fingers, pour her out

onto the wood and trace doodles till the tips

of my fingers turned gray and my

palms became coated with pulverized bones.

I wanted to sprinkle her on the grass,

food and fertilizer to aid in the photosynthesis

of her cherished rosebushes and purple

irises planted around the perimeter

of her chain-link fence.

I buried her in White Chapel Memorial Gardens

on a February morning, the frozen air chilling the marbled urn,

while the priest said his obligatory prayers.

I prayed her ashes wouldn't solidify.

Winter’s Claim

She wanted to go home,

to her cups of strong black coffee

laden with too much sugar,

to her books of crossword puzzles

and her treks to yard sales,

where she always found the latest

kitsch item to line her shelves.

The doctor told her the news.

Then, she told us.

Three weeks to live.

A decision made not to fight,

to let the metastasized masses

in her lungs claim her.

The ghosts of those words haunted

the narrow hallways of our ears,

and seemed loud, compared

to the steady, rhythmic beeps

of the monitor and the garbled

medical announcements made

over the intercom.

Laundered blue blankets did nothing

to keep the chill of winter from seeping into her bones,

and neither did the oddly crisp sheets.  

She complained, in the days before

she spoke those damning words,

how it felt much colder here

than it did that gray Christmas morning

the ambulance ferried her away

to doctors in starched coats

scribbling on medical charts,

to nurses forcing shots

through her weathered, aged skin,

and a freeway of collapsed veins.

Sleep, once a necessity,

now a luxury. A time constantly interrupted,

even when she came home

with us on hospice--

to strong blue morphine

laden with a bitter taste,

to breathing treatments

to a hospice bed made up

with freshly laundered sheets

and covered by a patchwork quilt

made in those days

before her hands swelled

and she could not hold her pencils

or the handle of her coffee mug.

Before she could not go home

to rearrange her kitsch--

the brass elephants with trunks held high,

and the glittered butterflies

paused mid-flight.

In between meals and restlessness,

she spoke of spring,

of planting roses and irises

and keeping a vegetable garden,

of walks around her neighborhood.

Dreams of spring vanished

as each week passed.

Winter made its claim.

She no longer felt the cold.

 

Obituary

For the woman who gave me

my first sip of wine, after I asked

if it tasted like grape juice, or Kool-Aid.

For the woman whose seventy-seven

years of life ended up as minuscule,

newspaper-style font.

For the woman who taught me

never to become an alcoholic:

not worth the investment or time.

For the woman who enjoyed

crossword puzzles, yard sales,

quilting, and a good cup of coffee.

For the woman who clipped coupons,

bought generics, and would have

blanched at an obituary’s price.

For the woman whose obituary

cost a little over two hundred

dollars, and would speak to frugality. 

Brandy credits Robert Frost as her inspiration to start writing poetry. She wrote her first poem when she was 14 and hasn't looked back. She is currently a graduate student at Missouri State University, studying English (Creative Writing), and has work currently featured at The Camel Saloon. She lives at home with her motley crew:  Rowdy, Hayley, and Layla (her three dogs), and has a personal blog about her adventures with writing and publication:  brandydawnclark.blogspot.com