Vanishing

An emptiness held in stasis, ice clinking against
unwashed  glasses and lip lines, the remains of uneasy 
quiet that comes after hard news has drenched us, 
slapping  against our faces, sending spatters into blank
white coats occupied by cheery voices.

I wonder  if the strength and force of time denied 
when days seemed endless has now drained away 
to add its substance to another, younger woman, 
now growing thick and round by what I ultimately
could not contain. 

I can almost taste the cracking ice draining 
slowly into fluid, held inches from my tongue.  
I close my eyes to let the mind float free, 
stretching thin across the frozen surface, 
the salvation of numbing cold. 

© 2002 Anne Fraser

Sparrows and Jays
 
I stand looking across a yard of short brown grass
and dry fields.  A gray handled shovel waits beside
a compost heap where sweet mulch smell still rises
and discarded bread crumbs become the twittering flutter
of sparrows and blue jays. 
 
A warm breeze flows through last night's silk, delicate and wet,
pinned to a cotton line; a slow simmer on the stove
brings flour and oil to the color of fields and honey.
So many summers kept in peach jars identified by year,
memories of sweet and sour words ending where they should
without a scar for boundary.
 
Long days in fields, schools and kitchens; too short evenings
in rooms always occupied.  My father who reads the weekend
paper standing over my mother, both content within
the fully negotiated spaces between the lines.
 
I shield my eyes to the sun and rest one hand over my belly.
When my child comes, I will bring her to this porch to watch
the sky darken while the feel of approaching rain drenches 
the wind.
 
I will hold her warm against me, after the thunders and rain
have come and gone, to watch wide pastures swell green
under cloudless skies, blessing the farmers' sweet corn
and yellow dandelions gathered by generations of children. 


© 2002 Anne Fraser

Cotton and Bone

Washerwomen gather at 
the shore before dawn,
casting out nets of silence
and gray laundry, spreading
beaten shapes across stone,
hoping for the sun to rise
and crack the cold that stiffens
both cotton and bone.

Soon they will gather
their skirts into bundles,
carrying out only what was brought,
stepping through acres of rocks
collected in childhood and shadows 
lying face-to-face in tall grass.
Sister, sister tell me.

How many days since we stood
and watch the sun rise 
over olive groves and the faces
of young men?  How long since 
the song bird last lifted from our fields? 
We have tripped and fallen,
lying sprawled upon the backs
of our mothers' dreams.

© 2002 Anne Fraser