Old photo

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Shoebox Poetry: The Field

what if the calling crows think you are
a makeshift scarecrow built for chasing
them away from their dreams? will they
peck at you with sharp beaks so far from
my grasp? will I be able to run fast enough
to save you? the shifting rice tells me
to take a deep breath. this isn’t a cornfield
and the cranes won’t hurt you. but grey
skies mean trouble so run to me anyway
my boy. mother needs you in her arms.

Shoebox Poetry: This is the fourth poem in my series based on an old box of photos I inherited when my grandmother died in 2004. The back of this photo reads “Gary in rice field Nov ’53.” It’s a photo of my dad, but it made me think of my own boy. He turned 18 in December and is finishing high school in a few months. This poem poured out instantly along with some tears. I guess I have some feelings.

Here are the other poems in the series if you missed them:

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Shoebox Poetry: Sunday Pose

pictures on sundays
wearing pure white
pearls, flowers, smiles

but not before

we wash in the family tub
first dad and then my ten brothers
then mother
then me
        cold
        dirt
        shame
        s i n
it absorbs deep into 
        my   soft skin
        my   thick blood
        my   frail bones
leaving me scabbed
broken apart
dirtier than before
but mother covers it all with white

smile, she says
but I’m thinking of willow trees
carving my name with a sharp knife
pomegranate juice running down my chin
screaming at the stars

straighten up, she says
but I’m thinking of foggy forests
walking barefoot through mossy earth
honey dripping from my fingertips
bathing in the moonlight

be sweet, she says
but I’m thinking of roaring waves
sunlight on freckled shoulders
seaweed stuck between toes
salt water taffy kisses

be quiet, she says
but I’m thinking of throwing things
messy hair and dirty fingernails
cadmium yellow, ultramarine blue
painting my own life

but not before

pictures on sundays
wearing pure white
pearls, flowers, smiles

Shoebox Poetry: Last week I rediscovered an old box of photos I inherited when my grandmother died in 2004. This poem is the first in a series of poems using those images as inspiration. Today’s photo is of my grandmother as a young woman. There is no date, but the sweeping handwriting on the back says “Kate, Gill St.” And yes, she told me her entire family bathed in the same water every Sunday before church. Can you even imagine?