Poem--Illinois, 1949
Here's a poem--would love your comments!
Illinois Summer, 1949
July, 1949, and Mom’s in love with bluesy harmonica, the passion
of Bogart and Bacall—unaware of Bogey’s cancer growing in the dark.
Cornfields thirst in hundred degree temperatures, later drown
in the heaviest rains ever recorded. Tonight she doesn’t care,
ignores sweat slicking her neck, lifts arms like damp moth wings
into the languid Illinois air. Piaf sings La Vie en Rose and Mom
is dancing a slow sensual waltz on our patio, her nightgown liquid
around her ankles, cigarette tip a banked coal glowing against the sky.
I wonder if I dreamed the record player in the open window teetering
on the sill, worn needle skipping on the licorice-thick record,
that rich buttery French voice drifting into darkness. I did conjure
a harmonica, Dad crossing the yard, placing his hand on her waist.
Illinois Summer, 1949
July, 1949, and Mom’s in love with bluesy harmonica, the passion
of Bogart and Bacall—unaware of Bogey’s cancer growing in the dark.
Cornfields thirst in hundred degree temperatures, later drown
in the heaviest rains ever recorded. Tonight she doesn’t care,
ignores sweat slicking her neck, lifts arms like damp moth wings
into the languid Illinois air. Piaf sings La Vie en Rose and Mom
is dancing a slow sensual waltz on our patio, her nightgown liquid
around her ankles, cigarette tip a banked coal glowing against the sky.
I wonder if I dreamed the record player in the open window teetering
on the sill, worn needle skipping on the licorice-thick record,
that rich buttery French voice drifting into darkness. I did conjure
a harmonica, Dad crossing the yard, placing his hand on her waist.
Labels: Poetrt
posted by Therese | 3:51 PM
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