Today my whole body
climbed up into my head
and got stuck there
again. All afternoon
I heard it mewling
calling down the stairs
for me to let it out.
It happens all the time
even though I tell it
there’s nothing up there
you want, and you know
that latch is broken.
But it doesn’t hear this,
listening past me for
the soft footfall of
consonants, thirsting
as it does, for dust,
clutter, and the dark.

   - An earlier version of this poem appeared 
     in Peregrine, the literary journal of 
     Amherst Writers & Artists
-- Shae Irving
Miss Addie feeds her chickens, picks tomatoes, shells 
   green peas. Uncle Jack and Mrs. Mabry rock 
       on the porch, in their mind's eye the solitary road 

restored to prairie; gaillardia's brilliant red and yellow spokes,
   a crush of bluebonnets, Indian paintbrush recalled 
       to their front steps.

Noontime, the Texas & Pacific workers open Dr. Peppers
   in the locomotive's shade, the Swift and Armour
      slaughterhouse gives up its odors to the heat. 

Lillie Belle Patterson carries us crosstown in her '49 blue Ford 
   past the turtle-clad rocks in the lake, the old down-and-outers
       at Smith's Barbershop, to the Colonial Cafeteria's lavish plates 

of fried chicken with two sides, the sweet corn
  pudding, the green beans rich with fatback; a slab 
       of sweet potato pie, almost as good, my husband judges, 

as Mama's cooking was. 
   "Three ninety-nine each," says the hostess, 
       "and y'all come back soon, hear?"

The blaze of mid-afternoon fires up the corals and yellows
   of Belle's front-yard roses. Shades pulled down, we rest
       in her darkened living room. My husband speaks of those 

who've passed, ghosts reposing in the sag of old wing chairs.
   Lightning flicks against the window. "Quick, hang up the phone!"
       Belle orders as thunder rolls across the extinct prairie.

Late afternoon, calf-deep in the shadowed creek 
   by the golf course where my husband, at fourteen, caddied 
       for rich whites; near the park, the library, the classroom 

he couldn't enter; I pretend I'm wading in his childhood
   streams, his river, hunting shells like those he used to find, 
       the clams and giant snails, deposits from an unknown sea. 

-- Yvonne Cannon