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In The Holl' er Thick and hard as slate shingles, prejudice grows abundantly here in t�e holl� er where time and progress have no place nor purpose. The crick slowly ripples over smoothed rocks and sand as crawdads traverse languid currents with ease. Faded knotted hair and sallow skinned, she sits coffee at hand while blue swirls curl from a nearly butted smoke wonder� n where it all went--youth�s promise withered and wizened, lost to realities cold unfeeling fingers. A clock , it�s face cracked and filmed with years of burnt offerings hangs on yellowed teapotted wallpaper keeping time backwardly. She recalls a miracle, held for a moment to her breast while she looks into dregs at the bottom of her cup. A smile briefly turns the corners of pursed and pinched lips. It falls away with thoughts of their eyes, suspicious, as though she�d done a wrong and brought trouble unto her own flesh-- a wrong deserving of punishment and pain. He�d been perfect of limb, rounded and whole but blue had cast a shadow across his spirit, thus his breath could not be caught or sustained by human hands nor mechanics. She was left with naught but questions, forced to live an unexplained guilt eating her insides -- pale and brittle wasting to nothing but bones, starving her body and soul of sustenance, love and light. And still their eyes accuse, or worse, she fears the pity behind their well meant intentions. And so she sits, each day same as the last waiting for a nameless something--release. By: Graci (c) 2001--Lorrie Workman Return To Graci's Poetry Page |
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