She Never Dressed for Dinner

 

She Never Dressed for Dinner

(“Whoever mocks the poor insults his Maker. Whoever rejoices at calamity will not go unpunished.” Proverbs 17:5)

She never dressed for dinner,
it wasn’t worth the effort. And days alone,
days of cold,
days of cardboard and railroad clatter
only repeat
the chatter she hears when she
limps downtown.

She sat in the back at church,
she sat in the shadows,
she always left early,
she knew the lines by heart.
The righteous always prospered,
the wicked lost it all,
and the way she saw it
she had no more to lose.

The snow snuck in the corners of her trailer,
the floor had rotted, and the children cried.
Once a year, or again at Christmas,
someone came by with mittens and a turkey
and she never was ungrateful, but she always cried.
What would she do when the mercy ran out?
What would she do when the big machine made
decisions, when the official positions were like
incisions in her soul? What work could she do
to earn a place at the table when she had no money
to wash her children’s clothes?
She knew the smell, she had grown up with it,
and stayed away from pretty places with hardwood pews
and unstained carpets. She knew their songs
but kept her distance.

They promised to pray, the people in the steepled building
warmed by weekly contributions. They told her to tithe. They
told her it would be multiplied. They had not lied, they
had not been honest with themselves and told the truth they
had been fed.

No one laughed at her. But no one treated her like a miracle,
a wonder,
a daughter,
a sister,
a reflection of her Maker,
a beloved image of God.

She Dressed Her Soul Well

 

She Dressed Her Soul Well

(“Each year his mother made him a little robe and took it to him when she went with her husband to offer the annual sacrifice.” 1 Samuel 2:19)

Habits are the vestments of the soul. Every holiday
we knew
a card would show up in our mailbox,
a day before Thanksgiving,
a week before Christmas.
Birthdays and anniversaries
a card would arrive with the address inscribed
by an unshaking and elegant hand.
Always signed in love and always sent in
a colored envelope to suit the occasion.
Even when we moved a thousand miles away,
there in a borrowed mailbox we picked up cards
from a saint who had practiced the artful habit.

I do not know how many thought of us in our exile,
perhaps dozens, perhaps every day, perhaps with tears,
perhaps hoping to say they wish they had done more.

But one, with a habit nurtured with 80 years of life
sent us air for our lungs,
hope and steady friendship
sealed in simple paper.

How long had she sent friends and pastors,
nieces and nephews,
children now adults,
the hope that someone still remembered,
the smile at seeing the same signature
of someone who adopted armfuls and never
forgot them
through deserts of Decembers?

She has dressed her soul well
though she would never think
a mere pen, paper and calendar
could ever make a fashion statement
noticed by anyone.

In All Seriousness

In All Seriousness

(“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.” Matthew 5:3)

I had a notion long ago, like an ocean full of logic,
that God needed informants, sleuths to testify of
loose gears in the machinery to management. I dearly loved
the agency,
the sanity I thought was saintly. I never clicked my tongue
or filed a report but I plainly
explained every missed question on the test;
and wondered how they test-taker graduated with all the rest.

Some of them became teachers, these ones with private files
printed upside down upon my desk. I confess I read them, if
not to the rest, to myself. Some of them led millions,
these ones dressed with waterproof ties, shades over their eyes,
while I thought my casual garb was more naked than theirs,
covering less than theirs; showing more of my bleached ankles
and skinny wrists. My mind was insulated just as well,
buried deeper than the death knell. My tears distracted the
prying eyes.

When did I believe I was richer than I had begun? What piles
of treasure,
uncalled-for leisure on mountain slopes and summer isles
had I amassed? My balance is higher, square footage greater,
new car faster; while I’ve read more books, learned more tunes,
bought more songs, and composed my poetry better than
I’ve composed myself. Because,

In all seriousness,

The nightmares I walked off on high school nights
are the same dreams I hide because old men should be
over them by now.

Dressed for the Dance

Dressed for the Dance

(“Pharaoh sent at once for Joseph. He was brought hastily from the dungeon, and after a quick shave and change of clothes, came in before Pharaoh.” Genesis 41:14)

They told me it was ending, the time was closing in,
the final act was over, we waited for the epilogue.
We had heard the announcement for ages, for lifetimes,
for moments we wondered would ever end.

But we kept on dancing, with our without the band.

They told me it was time now, the auditions began,
the callbacks, the final chance to make the team,
to be called an actor, a thespian, a professional
at my craft.

But, I kept on dancing, and never heard their laughs.

They agreed I had talent, I read well, they said,
“You have presence, you have intensity,
your belief is suspended and your belt holds up your pants.”

And I kept on dancing, avoiding cracks to save my mama’s back.

Which is where it started, with her, with mom. I was groomed,
I was dressed, costumed and confessed I loved the stage and applause,
while I was shy as a turtle who dreams of going to school without its shell.
I had done well to fight my bashful nativity until a guerilla war
left me slow to trust and playing in the dust; a quiet corner of my
personal prison cell. Books don’t talk back; books serve as friendship well.

But I dressed for the dance, scrubbed my face, neck and ears;
washed the ancient cream-colored Bug and picked up my date who
helped me

Keep on dancing. Dressed in rags or royal, my estimation is this:
esteem can be beaten, but dancing is forever’s food; dance on,
dance on.