Smokey Edge, Georgia.
I Wait in the diner. Not long ago Whites Only.
Now filled with black folks.
Mom would say “persons of color,”
that would include the two Hispanic truckers
and the Chinese cook.
Mom said “don’t go, no need to”.
She’s never been.
Gives me the silent treatment
while murdering Chopin on tortured keys.

Cousin Ed slides into the booth.
Across from me he glistens sweat,
wipes his forehead, grins, squeezes my hand.
“Hi cousin Citygirl, “ and adds “Chocolate au lait”!
Mocking, or teasing, I don’t care.
“Ok, double espresso” I say.

Red on white No Trespassing sign rusts in the grass.
Vine assaulted shack is all what’s left of it,
the Juke Joint where grandpa played
banjo with a bottleneck slide,
making it screech and sing.
Where the women Bess sang and danced.
The one he talked about incessantly,
when he had forgotten who we were.
How he pressed into her, ****** her behind the joint,
how she smelled and laughed and rocked the blues,
how she put her lips to the glass of bathtub gin, just so.

Short crepuscule gives way to night. Mosquitos come thick.
“Listen up Citygirl, hear the sounds, ghost drums and strings.”
I hear grandpa’s banjo, the slide’s screech, Bess sings.
I smell the funk, the sweat, ripe heat, the Blues.
I put my arm around his waist, grind into him
I want him hard, in me, lick his sweat.
He pushes me away, “hear up Citygirl,
I‘m not grandpa and you aint no Bess.”
Cristina Umpfenbach-Smyth  March 2012

PREY.

He sits at the corner of the bar,
fades into the shadows.
Unnoticed, non discript
among the regulars.
He eyes the dark haired woman.

Well nourished female, 130 pounds,
5 foot 6 (or thereabouts)
Red rose tattoo across left upper arm,
hands tied behind her back, feet bound.

She sips her drink, laughs at a joke.
He watches, waits.

Stab wounds to her chest.
Cause of death strangulation,
evidence of ****** assault.
Evidence of mutilation.

She  leaves, waves from the door.

Excitement swells his veins,
tightens his chest.
He starts to follow.
Someone shouts: “g’night Cinnemon!”

He retreats back into the shadow.
Prey can’t have a name.

Grey stone buildings jumble on the promontory.
White cliffs fall to the sea like a bridal veil,
merge with the blue waters of the summer season.
The land lies still, wanting, waiting.
Change of season late in coming.

Cisterns are dry, roses wilting.
A black clad woman walks the garden.
Dry leaves dance suddenly along the paves.
Her tongue licks the faint movement of air,
storm clouds gathers in the East.

After Vespers and Compline
the young nun enters her chamber,
opens the window, pushes back the heavy panes.
Sea fuses into obsidian sky.
Starlight dims behind racing clouds.

She sheds her habit for a white muslin sheath,
beds down on the narrow cot.
A slight breeze rolls over the window sill,
continues though the room, playfully
caresses the woman’s feet, licks her cheek.

A stronger gust follows,
pushes under her sheath,
waves up her inner thighs, caresses her belly,
rustles the stubby hair of her shorn head.
Her toes curl, knuckles turn white.

The storm comes suddenly and strong,
carries dried leaves of roses,
the scent of salty seas, fecund fields.
Her sheath pushed up around her waist,
an offer to a pagan God.

Window panes clank in protest,
waves crash against the rocky shore.
Clouds shed a load of steady rain.
The ****** sleeps, limbs askew,
until the hour of Aurora and Lauds.

Strong  winds make rain dance on the roof.
High heels perform passionate flamencos.
The windows weep pear shaped tears.
Fog wraps the house in ***** rags.

You  died
1 year
12 months
365 days ago.

Your aunt said “he’s in a better place.”
What better place than here, with me?
Your uncle said “it was his time.”
I saw no expiration date.

I feel no anger, no denial and accept
that you are gone. The deep ache in me,
the painful rise and fall of memories
will never cease.

I hold your favorite shirt, fold it under my head.
It smells of you and sea and sand and sweat.
Across the front it reads:
“keep the daily bread, give me the wine and cheese!”

I hear you laugh and swallow tears.

The barrier between her and  me,
thin shifting fog,  blurred lines
between my happiness and her pain.
She carries the burdens
of the darker side of my life.
I hold the beautiful moments,
those that shine.
We are getting closer.
The  membrane of separation falls away
as we become I.

In twilight sleep,
thoughts out of control,
images take hold.
Viewed against  the canvass of blackness,
dead people dance
with succubi an incubuses.
Tiny gymnasts
balance on sharp edged swords
in le cirque du soleil
under a moonless sky.

Grimm’s tales
of baked children
and hungry wolves
play out. On a runway
starving women show
the latest fashions in cardinal red.
The Grinch stole my  green silk  Balenciaga gown.
Gave it to the frog  prince.
Sleeping beauty is just a ******.
She had too much of all of it.

Hermes glass slippers are sold
Only too few and deserving  Cinderellas,
trophy wives of  mummified kings.
What they really deserve is not on the menu.
Just le plat du jour of ortolans.
The three pigs are out of breath,
Not enough air for a *******.
Rose colored glasses take on a nasty
hue of watered down blood.
Bottle green is not la couleur du jour,
rather that bile color
with a tint of pus yellow.
There is a storm brewing,
A tsunami rising,
the earth shakes,
Volcano red lava
licks down the mountain.

Destiny?
Fate?
Apocalypse?

A voice whispers:
put up a shield, a bright canvass.
Paint with bold rounded strokes
in earthen tones.  Mold  vessels
to hold the morning dew.
Catch rays of sun
in a glass glockenspiel.
Hum the world, sing life.
Touch, feel, be alive.

A ray of sun sneaks through the blinds.
Dust dances in a shaft of light.
I am safe, for another day.

Winter walks beside me,
kisses my skin with frozen lips,
paves my path with ice,
whispers snowflakes,
tells me spring is dead.

Leafless trees scratch a molten sky.
A pale sun caught in gnarly branches
bleeds into the ground,
seeps to the roots of comatose trees.
Spring stirs, winter lied.



@Cristina Umpfenbach-Smyth  2011