Home Sick

Waking in the afternoon long ago,

To the sound of my mother weeping.

Counterpoint to the swell of the soap opera speaking,

Then, a hiss, and the sharp burning smell of iron on cotton.

Sheets, pants, skirts, and finally, shirts.

Stacks of cloth on the sofa, waiting.

All the laundry finally bleached, folded, ironed.

I learned on my father’s handkerchief, a clean one daily.

This summer afternoon, in my home, alone,

My dead friend has left me weeping

Keeping the cycle of washing, folding, and ironing,

Back aching, I took more from my closet hangers.

The long day, I ironed the unironed and the ironed.

Running the steaming, hissing point into each dart and crease.

Finally, my wardrobe hung, ready for distributing

After I leave, as we all eventually will.

Defiant

Beyond the Internet, but not the ubiquitous Dollar General

Winding through the green pavements of the upstate border road

Carolina green dreams.

Sway down a dirt drive to a distillery made by Florida pirates

Falling slats of shacks showing a gleaming barrel inside

Barking dog on the hill tells me no one is home

Left thirsty.

Long an expatriate in a foreign land,

Adopted by a cold California mountain.

Pines, bold obsidian, sandy path

Almost forty years in Sierra wilderness,

The high desert home, until

I left, thirsty

South, the music is right

Like rainy afternoons followed by the steaming green.

True in my heart to dance with a cousin,

Touch okra and taste tomatoes.

My bifurcated soul spans this country

Stretches tight, snaps back.

Neither blue ocean, neither side slakes my thirst

Even with whiskey, I thirst.