I met Caroline in middle school, at some point which I don't really recall. We may have met on the school bus. I have known her so long, that she's like a distant family member.
The first time I ever read my poetry in public was at the old Wrangler Restaurant in Knoxville, around 1988 or 1990. Sometime during those horribly busy grad school years. I was terrified. Seeing Carol there was comforting.
Now she teaches English in Knoxville at South College, and writes amazing poetry, and blogs. She was kind enough to share some wonderful poems with me.
Late October
At night in bed she finds her hands
cupped behind her head
as if to cradle the fears of her dreams.
This is how her father lay dying,
the way he used to relax
On the couch to watch baseball.
What kind of pose is that for a dying man?
Out the window he would stare
to the orchard and claim he saw
faces in the branches. When she bent
down to put her cheek on his chest
she saw only ripe apples beginning
to rot, apples refusing the ground.
Pandora
Chisel against stone:
Day after day I felt his metal
dress me, the white block of me,
marble chips flying,
heavy hammer sparking,
flames sharp as scalpels,
my lips suddenly burned,
wisdom kissed my mouth,
the jar lodged under my arm
and then the men pouring
toward me like lava.
When a god forms you as his tool,
what choice do you have?
If only I were still
my mother’s bones.
Anniversary
Standing on the edge of this hole
staring into the earth, the smell
of clay and mint swimming on your face,
you struggle with your tribute.
In the distance diggers
drag their tools across the grass
and over the hill to make another bed.
You watch the breeze move everything but the stones.
There is no prayer that can reach the dead.
There, there you stretch out your body beside her,
measuring yourself against the grave.