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THAT SUMMER IN ’75

my daughter brought home
glazed donuts, coconut cookies,
lemon meringue pies --
baked goods not sold
by the end of the day --
slated to be burned
if not taken by the help.

That summer between
high school and college,
we feasted on cherry tarts
and butter frosting cakes.
Indulging in chocolate and creme,
we forgot about clogged pores,
plugged veins, the leave taking
that would follow in the fall.

In that never to return summer
beaus came and went without ties,
the decadence of sugar
pervading the hot, humid air.

First published in the PittsburghPost Gazette, July, 2001

SIX OBJECTS ON THE TABLE
(at a gathering of six women poets)

We have known places like the moors --
empty, desolate --where, like Jane,
we sought safety from cold mists
in the arms of a Mr. Rochester.

But this woven rainbow scarf
is for merry peasant women
to wrap around their heads
on the way to buy bread
for the evening meal.

The spiral journal is a blend
of red, yellow, and blue thoughts
while the dog-eared book guards
the firesides of friends, so they are
not forgotten... silver beads of memory.

And this calendar, a record of days:
not yesterday, not tomorrow, but now,
this day, breaking the bread of poetry
with friends. This is enough.

TOMORROW THERE WILL BE PAPERS TO SIGN

In the darkened hospital room,
I watch the Arabic writing of my heart
on the monitor, recording
each tremor of my life's blood.

Behind the curtain,
the college student spills out
a torrent of her life,
love, unwanted pregnancy.

Hours ago, her water breaking, body
taken over by the rhythms of birth:
pain and push; bear down, hold back;
the final rush of fluid, blood, baby.

New life asleep now in the nursery
above where she can't hear crying,
see infants carried to their mothers.
All those months the tiny heart
beating beneath her own.

The nurse comes in to check, help
her to the bathroom. I see
the cherub face of a girl scout
doing a good deed.

But where is your mother?
In Milwaukee picking up the pieces
of her broken marriage.

But where is your father?
Fled at my first contractions
to his new, young wife.

But where is your lover?
Wants nothing to do with me or the baby.
Says it's a trap into marriage.

Tomorrow, there will be papers to sign.
She may decide to hold the infant
once before she leaves. Already,
she has noted the dimpled chin,
so like her sister's.

Her voice is calm, no tears.
I want to pull back the curtain
take her by the shoulders,
tell her to cry, wail
like the ancient women of Greece.

I want to say:
People who should be here aren't.
People who said they loved you lied.
Don't let them hurt you again!

I say nothing, only wonder:
If she were attached to my monitor,
what would it show?
It is only a machine. There
is much it cannot measure.

First published in Taproot Literary Review, Spring, 1993

WAITING FOR WATER
on Edgar Degas’ The Tub, The Louvre, Paris

Who will pour the water
from the two pitchers that stand
on the shelf whose sharp edge
divides the painting?

The woman is waiting,
crouched in the empty, round
tub, the curve of her back
completing its circle.

She balances with a strong
left arm. With the other, she
holds a sheaf of auburn hair
away from her shoulder.

Who will pour the water?
The woman is waiting.

© All Copyright, Anita Gevaudan Byerly.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.