You were talking in your sleep last night.
In English? you ask.
I think so, or so it seemed.
What did I say?
I’m not sure. Words were garbled.
Gargled?
Garbled.
Not gargled?
Maybe gargled, too.
—Victoria Emmons, copyright 2019
Love
A Prayer for Cold Feet
Do not set foot
into a black limousine.
A ride through empty streets
makes the dream real.
No pretend toe tag,
coroner’s signature required.
Son rescues a wedding ring
from a burial far too deep.
Well-placed calls to
sisters, brothers and daughters.
Search for an American flag
to drape across a wooden coffin.
Images of sixty-some years
pasted to a display board
filled with silly grins
at milestone occasions.
Give me a handkerchief,
please. Be there for me,
you, a witness to
love, family, legacy.
Write your name in a book
to remember celebrants
for a friend, father, grandpa,
brother, husband, lover.
Shoe pinches my toe
with each step toward
sympathetic arms outstretched,
pinches my heart.
If the shoe hurts
I don’t have to wear it.
Allow me, dear Lord,
to live with cold feet.
—Victoria Emmons, © 2017
For Karen
Weeping Redbud
Weep not for me, sweet redbud tree,
Thy leaves will take no chances
Each heart resides most playfully
Upon thy silken branches
Dangling in the wind they sing
Hearts ready for damnation
Search for love against the wind
And hope for procreation
Young ones be the shiniest
Deep ruby red reaction
Thus what creature dare resist
So lovely an attraction
Seeds strewn about with local help
Assures that love will grow
New heart-shaped leaves thus soon to sprout
Come melting winter snow
Wouldst that my own heart sing so loud
And dance to its own tune
While suitors called upon my door
In light of harvest moon
These ruby lips await the kiss
That stirs my dormant soul
Much as the weeping redbud waits
‘Til she achieves her goal
Be patient, she advises me,
Love grows at its own pace
The kindest words, a gentle touch
That make a red heart race
When redbud leaves remain too long
Their red begins to fade
In favor of a dulling green
That hides beneath the shade
Younger leaves retake the stage
Flash colors in the sun
As older ones accept their place
Their usefulness now done
Yet hidden behind a shady branch
Old lovers rekindle a flame
Dull green, a few new dents perhaps,
Still loving all the same
–Victoria Emmons, 2017
While visiting friends in North Carolina, I discovered a Weeping Redbud tree in the yard. The tree’s red, perfectly heart-shaped leaves fascinated me. Then I noticed the older leaves were solid green, having lost their brilliant, red color. It reminded me of the joy of finding love.
Prague 2
You met me
in Prague
waltzing around
the rim of my
wine goblet,
too late to join me
for dinner and
too late for
a shared glass
of Burgundy.
You buzzed to
let me know
you were there
nonetheless.
–Victoria Emmons, 2017, Prague
The First Time
The first time
I saw my own eyes
staring out from
behind your sweet face,
a mirror of self-love
unencumbered by years
of doubt, sweat, tears.
That first time,
the only time
I saw you
before she took
you away
to a better life.
–Victoria Emmons, 2017
Dedicated to all the mothers
who had to give up their children.
Fifteen Minutes ’til Midnight
In fifteen minutes you and I will turn thirty.
That long ago, so much time vanished.
Fifteen minutes disappearing like thirty years.
At midnight, all those years will have passed.
That day we met, we cued up for good reason.
A boat too full let us laugh together instead,
share a beer at the hotel bar,
become friends and lovers for life.
Ten minutes remain until thirty years arrive.
We can soon celebrate a milestone,
worth a bottle of your best champagne.
Bubbles make me laugh. So do you.
I hear your laughter ring in my head. Yet
how heavy it seems. I carry that laughter with me.
Its joy and its burden. A love that will not end.
A memory that will not cease to exist.
Five more minutes and our thirty-year anniversary
becomes real. Aunt Wilma said thirties were the
best years. Best for everything. Her wisdom stays
with me. But after thirty years, a void appears.
Not the same without you, my love, despite the hour.
Remember our anniversary, my calendar tells me.
It is now done. Check you off my to-do list.
I remembered. No one else did.
–Victoria Emmons, 16 May 2017
Red Palms
Music chimes a peaceful note from the mouths of children
waving palm fronds to signal triumphant goodness,
line a welcome path for the Master.
Peace be with you.
Tears of joy blend with splattered crimson pews upended
in a rubble of hatred permeating empty minds
determined to crush freedom.
Cry for Egypt.
Red palms scatter the ancient floor of life, open palms
never to breathe again, nailed to a cross of
faith, hope and love.
Cry for the world.
–Victoria Emmons, 2017
Hearts and Flowers
A single red rosebud shares a vase with purple statice
My only valentine flowers of the season,
A sweet surprise to me, delivered by hand
With a smile to melt me into an unseemly puddle.
Does he know? Can he feel the others?
Other flowers from the past that cannot compete
With these beauties, carefully chosen
Searching for a home and mine is waiting.
Quiet takes over for now, not long ago
A splendid torrent of noise replenished my heart
Hid the pain if even for a few hours
Brightened an otherwise cloudy day.
He must know my love will last forever
Will never go away, no matter what day
No matter the hour, the year, the second
I will always love my boy.
–Victoria Emmons ©2017
You
What remained of winter washed up into my throat
so you made a cup of strong ginger tea, honey added with lemon.
Your soiled pajamas spun round and round with soap
in a dance that was unexplainable.
Your dance. But I knew why.
Guilt makes you do things.
I needed strong. I needed you.
Your voice faint and mistakenly distant over the wires
even as you stood right next to me.
You hiding. Me guessing.
That game we play over and over.
Maybe I should hide and you guess where.
Hide behind the ache in my lower spine,
hide from the fear buried in my bosom,
hide away the treasures lost to time
and a curvy blonde.
But you stand over me and serve a platter with tea
and sweet chocolate bits.
You convince me to taste you once again.
Insincerity does not become you.
–Victoria Emmons ©2017
Clean
I remember the 13 x 9 x 2 aluminum version
Carving out perfect brownies for a crowd
Or the glass model 8 x 6 x 2, the smaller size
For the rare few who stayed up late
I remember baked-on grease forever embedded
Into the fabric of the pans, creating their own
Modern artwork in a chaotic kitchen
The result of motherhood gone awry
Baking meant sustenance, but more than that
It revealed ingenious fortitude, cleverness and pride
Combined with creativity that surpassed all else
I remember that creativity, that strength
And I remember the love that went into each egg
Fried into a perfectly shaped circle inside a slice of bread
A circle that we called breakfast, along with crisp bacon
And always a glass of whole milk or juice, our choice
I remember taking turns at the bar, slipping onto a warm stool
In front of a previously occupied plate still wet with yellow yolk
That she shoved aside to replace with a new, warm toad
One that would be consumed in time to catch a school bus
I remember the burnt days, too, clouded with emotion
Fervent spirit doused for an hour or two, yet
Toad-in-a-hole breakfasts kept flying out of her kitchen
Into our hearts and souls, all four of us children
I remember her pans as I retrieve my own small one
From the dishwasher, not as clean as I would like
The glass still living with some of last night’s meal
My carelessness, the wrong machine setting
I remember we had no dishwasher then, a luxury,
Washed by hand, each greasy skillet or brownie pan
Thus why the grease remained, no doubt, what strength
Do children have to scrub away the toughest stains?
Tools at my disposal, I begin to work, fingers dry and sore
From steel wool combined with cleaning powder that
Lasts as long as I do to see every last speck of memory stain
Removed forever, or until the next chicken Marsala bakes
–Victoria Emmons, ©2017
