- A Portfolio of Poetry
Instruments of Torture
With silver barrels we were burning ourselves for beauty.Jaws clamping shut with a snap, teasing straight locks into ringlets with tempting heat.Holding locks against their will, wrapping strands aroundrods in all varieties of sizes.
Our weapons used in preparing for church, pictures, or pageants.An orange light signaling us it was time to appear grown-up,little Dolly Partons or hand-to-hip miniature Rebas, grins paintedwith borrowed lipstick.
Sitting on beds with small feet dangling, a honky tonksound thumping from the radio on a nearby dresser,an aunt’s cigarette billowing smoke as she sprays Aqua Net in clouds,sealing up the pins, waves, and spirals.
After, the room smellinglike the tunnels of the pig-iron furnace still standing in Fitchburg;infused with the scent of sweat, frustration, and intensity,“About done, sweetie. You look just like a China doll.”
Promises of perfected femininity filling our noses, coating our lungs,making us cough into shaking fists as we stand to inspect the finished product in the mirror. [End Page 51]
Dreams of Family Buried in the Motor City
There I saw a city made of rusted engines,where, above orange crusted pistons, walked a giantess
who I knew was called Polly, don’t ask me why,I just knew it, and trailing behind her body,
a body that must have come from hills and hollers,it being shaped the way it was, smooth and gentle,
like rain showers flowing down into a creek bed,like slick, white bark on a wintering birch,
what appeared to my tiny eyes to be strings,and at the end of each string, turning and twirling
in the air up above, were golden stars,struggling to get free. And, right there, by the statue
of the curled fist, she knelt, opened her big rosymouth, and called down to me, saying,
“Hey there, little un, you wantcha a pretty? I got plentyof em. Fresh in from Cynthiana, or from Delvinta, or from
Hurricane and Pound Gap, you know all them places,dontcha, little man?” It was then I realized there
were men on the end of those silver strings,her pretties, caught by their belt buckles, trying [End Page 52]
their best to get free, fighting against the windthat smelled like smoke, and burning oil
that ran black. Men I knew, why, there was Uncle Danny,and Cousin Ducky, one of the former Sheriffs, even
Doc Maddox. She reached down, raked them all acrossthe air in a cloud, they looked like blackbirds, up there
above her. I gathered my biggest voice, yelledup from the pit of my belly, “Why in the Lord’s name
you got those people for? What’re you doing, bringing themway up here?” And she just laughed, raised back up and said,
“Fresh crop for the factories, baby. These’ll be for Ford,them’ll be for GM, and a special precious few of em,”
here she gave me a big eyed wink, “They’ll get to appearon the radio, dontcha know? Brought their mandolins
with em, can’t you hear em warming up, already?”And I hearda high, Old Baptist-like yelp, “I am Death, ain’t none
can tell. I open the door to Heaven and Hell.” Goosebumpspricked up all over my body like Braille, my hair raised
up like the back of a cat, I felt my breath drewup out of me, to which she laughed, right before
I was about to wake up, and hollered, louder than last time,“They’ll build this place on the backs of our men, just you wait.” [End Page 53]
Ed Meets the Devil
No sooner had me and Stuartfinished our night of drinkingwith a stop in the cell, courtesyof Sheriff Moore, that I spottedanother man, worse off.He laid up in the corner,rocking, crying, and moaningabout some devil or another.So I invited the other feller’s tormentoronto myself, and good God, therewas a thing crawledup and onto my back.A huge, stinking, hairy...