Sunday, January 01, 2012

Bagette Street

I want to walk down Bagette Street,
to feel my feet on the solid ground
that witnessed my mothers first wail of I Am,
a screaming uninvited guest
who made her appearance long after my Grandmother
had ceased to entertain any wish
to suckle or nurture another hungry infant.

I want to go to Baggette Street
to sit on the sagging stoop, warped from the weight of our history,
and listen for the faint whisper of a child...
Do the creaking boards hold memories of her laughter?
Did she ever shriek with unadulterated glee?
I know she wept a seeping spillage of tears
from a morterd well of sorrow
that never new a drought year, never dried up or emptied
no matter her wailing and her weeping.

I can see firey curls poking wildly above the porch rail,
as she pranced on the floor boards of her lonliness...
With dead bodies sharing space between handcrafted furniture
in the bowels of the basement
under her running and playing.
Her Father, the first mortician in the county to embalm,
drained blood from the lifeless and replaced it with liquids of preservation.
The same fingers that crafted wood and word.
He was a little Banty Rooster, his poetry and whimsy
published regularly in the town crier...
His furniture holding up the hundred years required to be an antique.

And he beat the ginger child for a violin lie
and a tween truth;
balanced on the boundaries of her innocense.
She gave up the violin and never trusted love again...

I want to go to Baggette Street;
birthplace of the womb
whose only living fruit
Is me.


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