Bypoetno1@mciworld.com 

THE FEAST

I traveled that day
to a road-side restaurant
but the dining room was empty,
and I pushed open the door 
to the back room,
saw tables set for a banquet:
white tablecloths, carnation vases, 
napkins folded like nurses’ caps.

And women in aprons with hearts
on the pockets busily carried in
fruit cups, baskets of rolls.
One woman yelled, “We’re 
not open tonight, and I thought
to myself, “There are no signs.”

And a man entered, told me 
to move my car. In the alley
an eighteen-wheeler
was trying to make the bend,
and the driver was large, face
creased from the sun, beard gray,
hands rough as he turned the wheel.

And suddenly many people rushed out
to empty the truck; men who had been
lying in the dirt got up, brushed themselves 
off, ran to carry crates to the kitchen.
“What’s in the crates?” I asked the driver
who looked at me in surprise as he pried
open a lid. “Why, lady, don’t you know --

it’s words,” and then I saw them --WORDS
of many meanings, different textures,
varied syllables. I wanted to touch them,
taste them, roll them on my tongue.
And eagerly I joined the others
at long tables where we laughed
and ate until we were filled.

CIRCLES

The green of your eye 
reminds me of a pool 
somewhere in a meadow 
waiting for my small pebble

The circle expands
until I think I know 
everything

You blink
and I am suddenly aware 
of the ring 
your glass is making 
on the table

WHITE SMOKE
in memory of Lillian Guffey

I said I would come in the spring
when winter turns gentle
and the sun loses its pallor;
when bright crocuses thrust 
through the dead growth .....

your life these past five years..... 
moving from house to hospital, 
high-rise to nursing home;
from asthma to emphysema
to depression that sprouted
the strange dark shapes 
of paranoia.

I said I would come in the spring
and I have
to kneel beside your casket,
offer a prayer, say my goodbye. 
You can't feel my touch,
see my tears. I remember
easy smile, shared laughter,
before breathing became
all there was.

Tomorrow, the blast of heat
may catch you, give life again 
for an instant . . . body rigid,
then limp from raging flames,
all the passion and anger
finally consumed.

I cannot search for you
in damp earth, budding flower
only in a rising plume
of white smoke.

SWEEPING OUT THE CAVE

When the earth wakes suddenly 
like a cat from her fireside slumber 
and stretches into spring, 
something stirs in me
with the blooming forsythia,
tells me it is time again 
to sweep out the cave.

>From the top shelf, I take down 
a dusty box of bones, relics 
of a broken marriage: 
yellowed wedding gown, crumbling 
cake ornament, dried flowers,
the photo of two innocents.

They are cobwebs in my heart,
shades of what might have been. 
Carefully, I replace the items 
one by one, return the box 
to its dark recess. I shut 
the cupboard door, open 
the windows wide.

BLUE ROSE

There is the distant rumble
of thunder rolling over
brown hills where lightning
smells like red geraniums
invading the room
where I open
the wicker basket
to find your shirt
marked by mildew
and notice the tiny petal
of pink on the collar.

copyright, Anita Byerly.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.