Living in the Material World 1973, and: Georgia Clay, and: Annie's Song 1974, and: Grandmother's Spit, and: The Hustle 1975, and: It's Still Rock and Roll to Me 1980

Living in the Material World
1973

Most important was my Flinstones' lunchbox
pink metal canvas for Pebbles
also in pink, like my first-day dress
trimmed in eyelet tatting on the hem and sleeves.
Girls still couldn't wear pants,
but the teachers could paddle us,
and on the playground
I learned about the cool girls
who had their Dick and Jane readers
covered in flower-power contact paper,
mine wrapped in recycled grocery bags
harder to read out loud
sitting in the language arts circle,
Montclair Elementary, First Grade.

Georgia Clay

It was quite a common sight to see a group of womengathered on the porch sharing a plate of dirt.

– Dr. Dennis Frate

In my grandparents' pine-thicket
there was an open space, depressed,
where water would pool in spring,
dry-up in summer, cracked ground
as if hundreds of broken red plates
had been tossed in a pile.
Linda and I would play tea party,
arrange a table on the grass,
azalea blooms at each fractured setting.
Some days we would dig deeper
find real treasure –
white clay, kaolin
soft as cheese for imaginary crackers.
Once, my granny watched me
pretend to nibble,
"Stop it! That's what poor women do."
I dug small holes, buried the white chalk,
then sucked my marked fingers,
discovered the sweet bitterness of earth.

Annie's Song
1974

The cool kid in second grade
wasn't me, but I got to sit
neatly in a row with others
out of reach of Annie, who hit

so many times, she'd been exiled
to a desk outside arm's reach
of any other student,
right beside our teacher.

On Valentine's day,
we hung pouches, heart shaped,
along the bottom of the blackboard,
ate candy hearts until our bellies ached,

but the real ache was watching Annie
check her pouch over and again
only finding one from Mrs. Miller.
In second grade, we'd learned to sin,

already shunning girls like Annie.
My mother had made me sign cards
for every student in class, but one
never made it past the schoolyard.

Grandmother's Spit

after Andrew Hudgins

She catches you by the collar or belt loop
pulls you back, spins you around, grabs shoulders
plants you firmly in front of her.
It is the price you pay for licking the bowl,
taking the short cut through the pasture,
or playing baseball with cherry tomatoes.
For the boys, it always seems so quick:
the spit, the rub, the bolt for the back of the trailer,
the wiping away begun before they turn the corner.
As a girl, I know different.
First, there will be the sweeping back of hair,
the clothing readjusted and the reprimands
about how young ladies should act.
Finally, the matrilineal baptism, snuff & butter scented,
the thickness clinging to my face, Granny eyeing me,
until I collapse beside her, folding my hands in my lap.

The Hustle
1975

"Just watch American Bandstand,"
my brother said as he packed his duffel bag.
I wasn't sure how I could learn to dance
watching a television show
but for once I was trying
not to be a pesky little sister.

On the way to the Greyhound Station
he didn't try to commandeer
the entire backseat, didn't pinch me,
or offer me a dollar to lie in the floor-well
so he could stretch out, be comfortable.
He tapped his foot to a silent beat
while we waited to say goodbye.

Over Burger King Whoppers and shakes,
we talked about how funny he'd look in uniform.
At home, when I didn't feel well,
Daddy told me not to bother my mother.
I found her crying in the bathroom,
bent double on the toilet seat.
"You're just sad because your...