How I Knew I Knew…
I didn’t know what you knew,
I just didn’t know you.
I couldn’t have known this was the last car ride,
in your new-blue Cadillac, with smooth-white leather seats,
automatic windows and me.
I didn’t know it would be our last drink, together,
at the bar named the Brandy Iron on the
south side of the Roosevelt Boulevard in Philadelphia.
I should have known the car wash and the promise
of a sugary-cinnamon treat as a reward was our last stop,
while waiting patiently for you to finish your full gin drink.
I didn’t know what you knew,
I just didn’t know you.
It was me on Saturday morning that sat with you,
you and I in our Lucky Strike and sulfur filled room,
maraschino cherry juice trapped under clear bubbles.
You made me memorize the wisdom of football
life never stayed the same, health and wealth,
your time played the odds on your mysterious game.
And you died leaving a bereaving family,
crying icy tears, year after year,
an ephemeral question of impending trust.
I didn’t know what you knew,
I just didn’t know you,
as we cruised your yacht down the Chesapeake River
with so called friends wiping memories from your children’s
wind burned fears, Frank Sinatra’s sorrowful plea
echoing over your cremated skin and bones.
Your charred vessel coating the top of a quiet Still Pond
tempting the bellies of hungry fish.
I will never forget the whisper of your last I love you,
a full moon lulled me to sleep in my four poster bed,
I was hugging my worn-brown, warrior teddy bear.
I didn’t know what you knew,
I just didn’t know you,
Visceral memories revisit through the weight of one
cherry, sinking so slowly to the bottom of my tall glass,
your drink is finished, memorial red roses long wilted.
And…
All I could think of as a child,
was…
I knew you where food for a
tiny starving fish.
And…
All I can think of as a woman
is..
I didn’t know what you knew, and
I don’t think you knew either.
Rebecca’s Room
I find myself as a young girl,
lying on my stomach on the floor
of a pristine crystal-violet room;
dark, plush, purple carpet that
my fingers need to dig deeply in.
White wood frames the window as
perfectly placed ferns sway
with the warm, inviting breeze;
a vast meadow fills the distance.
A girl—an almost grown
woman to me—stands
in front of emerging,
falling innocence.
She talks to me as if I am not
there—through her reflection—she
begins to share.
She tells me how this bedroom
is her castle paradise;
her mother wanted it to be nice,
for her.
She stands in front of
her mirrored vanity looking,
admiring her new firm
breasts growing
under her pink t-shirt.
She smoothes palms to fingers
from her collar bone to her waist;
her elbows create empty space and
I fear she will remember
I am breathing here—
in the same room. I am scared.
I think to escape.
Slowly
through her, I bloom.
She removes her shirt—still
with her back to me
and tells me a secret—
sometimes,
I stand in front of
the open window
and slowly move
my hips.
I gasp, a small unnoticed gasp.
I am pained by the beauty of her,
the beginning of the telling shape,
an elegant back bone, ribs in perfect rows,
skin unmarked, skin unknown.
I wished
my hands were hers—
her skin mine.
Hidden in our violet glow,
new flowers grow
in the distance, framing my
frozen pose.
