slow hum
grandma iola kept music/ inside herself like you keep baskets of paper clips push pins and caffeine pills
she kept stories too people/ places/ times good and not so good wrapped/ in tiny packages to disperse when needed
the quilt/ she tucked around me
at night/ burlap on one side/ how it itched unrelenting until the discovery of its origins soothed the savage/ as she spun tales patches moving/ opening each a testament/ to a life once lived/ gthi tiuzhi wiwita-ama
my family still lives in me
fannie moving through tall grass her skin silk/ like black moonless night long skirt dragging/ catching on shafts of yellow wheat
lula hugging/ breathless angels close another to bury/ in shallow graves along the river’s edge
goodie bubbling/ grinning always a good wedding dancer
pearl of great beauty
iola of great strength
lessie of gentle spirit not long meant/ for this earth
gifting my mother breath
before departing this sphere
a cooing rooster at dawn three times/ flowing back to the beginning now i am her/ music kept inside slow hum
the things he took from me
in dark hours/ world sleeping
bundled on its side/ resting
peaceful cords sooth the still air
whispers on bird breeze/ and wing breath
soundless soft wind/ across sidewalks
gentle stir of children’s chalk
remnants of youth/ glowing blue
in twilight/ star jasmine and little leaf lindens
scent the air shifting through the open window
their leaves green glow iridescent/ in the moonlight
stardust spiraling downwards/ taking
what is left of me/ close your eyes
hush/ there is no need to witness this
unraveling/ slitting/ flesh rending
peeling away from its mooring
pressure and swelling inside/ each thrust
drives the barrage deeper/ into soft tissue
absent from the body/ grunt
and sweat/ sheltered in moonbeam spiral
still/ we cannot escape the swell
how it covers the air/ and our broken
body is/ just there
when he is finished/ with this assault
we find the body limp/ devoid of breath
we run our ghost fingers/ along still chest
we lift and catch/ any fragments of blood
and spittle frothing on the body’s lips
touch the residue of liquid that he has again
injected into us/ it slips down
the inside of the body’s thigh
the body is too large for the bed
to small for the space it inhibits
we no longer fit inside our own skin
so/ we separate
tucking parts of ourselves away
coughing the body back to life/ jagged
breath drawn in aches tumbling from bruised lips
i/ am no longer whole
i/ am alone in this
this is what/ he has taken from me
endless night and sky and land and then
moon rests in its glow
expecting/ to be cradled
bridge of clouds/ reacts to tinted tips
crafting soft steps spiraling from earth to sky
below lands stretch/ endless
mountains loom
purple azure highlights strike
tree tips brilliant/ against
the fast growing denim night
nothing/ moves only gathering shifting shades
on the road headlights greet headlights
greet darkness again
shadows transverse/ a sign becomes a man
walking/ a tree/ a dragon
exhaling/ laying itself down
so that we may move past
quietly/ soft songs beat bass from the stereo
in the back children snore lightly/ mouths open
whisper past the hill/ cross covered
eyes closed imagining/ you/ climbing
cloud spiral untainted
by what has happened to your body
forcing the inverse on i-75
my car is straight hood rez/ no joke
i sculpted and duct taped that pizza box to the dash board
to house the rear view mirror/ the angle is perfection
i can see everything behind me
i don’t usually drive that car/ there’s a spare
passage side since october/ it’s now april
but/ i drove it today
that little tire was spinning twice as fast
to keep up with the rest/ like a short kid trying to keep up
with the big people in their life/ like ryan
little legs working overtime/ to keep up with my stride
never complaining/ not then/ not now
we are/ moving backwards
i lift myself off the sterile hospital floor/ grasping
the thin silver rails of the gurney/ yanking
that white sheet up and over your face/ ryan
you don’t move/ don’t complain/ no whisper
no sigh/ nothing
i am grabbing the small hands/ of your brother and sister
hooking baby in her car seat on my elbow
out the windowless door/ past the long-faced nurse
with her compliant face/ exiting the automatic doors
which hiss open behind us with a slow/ low
shush/ sunlight striking our backs
faces in shadows/ we climb back into that broken car
that car whose only purpose has been to deliver us
to this sick place/ we will not stay here
we make this car take us back up i-75 north
full speed in reverse/ cars barreling past us heading south
riding parallel at times with cars on the other side of the highway
heading north/ them facing north
they do not see us
sliding back through town/ past the c-store
past the kids/ dispersing from the ball court
past the family/ arguing in their front yard
up skunk hollow and into the driveway at unit 43
out of that car/ past the dogs/ who do see us
taking back their licks from our knees
into the house/ where the children disappear
into the caverns of blankets and the baby
is uncoated/ unwrapped/ and tied to her cradle board
gurgling and watching me/ as i crawl backwards
and sit on the floor to hang up the phone before it can ring
i will stay here forever if that’s what it takes/ just
don’t/ let it ring/
b.g. thomas an emerging artist and writer resides in macy nebraska. thomas recieved a MFA in Studio Art from Moore College of Art and Design and a MFA in Creative Writing from Arcadia University. thomas’ work has appeared in Fish Food, GNU, The Warren, Dryland, Silver of Stone, Heavy Feather Review and Hydrotropic Literary as well as several anthologies.