- Miss Rosie
once in a while she eased herself down her three back steps and around to the front of the house just to see who might be coming, then back to the tiny space once a back porch now a small room just big enough for a wicker rocker and table painted over so many times they might have been made of enamel.
when there was anyone to talk to there seemed some reservation about going to heaven, a place she could barely call the name of anymore,
transfigured into a matter of basic physics, salvation being not so much a condition of the soul as a place she could get to by just closing her eyes.
Alvin Aubert, an award-winning poet, is Professor Emeritus of English at Wayne State University in Detroit. In 1975, he founded Obsidian, and edited the literary journal until 1985. He is author of Against the Blues, Feeling Through, South Louisiana, and If Winter Come: Collected Poems 1967–1994. His latest collection of poems is Harlem Wrestler (1995).