The Poetry Of...
Marie Gail Stratford.........................
On Empathy
There is something to be said in favor
of understanding all the hurt
the past has held--those injustices
that won't be repaired
with the forebearance of a grin
while the heart grimaces in pain.
I've told the stories casually
on road trips in the car, at countertops
in bars, in scenes as public
as my kitchen--as private
as the Uptown Theater (complete
with mood lighting, sound effects,
black space surrounding
a lone reader on a solitary stool).
It never occurred for me to think
the passages were sad--more tragic
when linked together than when distributed
at random like rooky baseball cards--
until after the night my soul rent
inside out, screamed tragedy
louder than I ever could.
Reviving from the dive into indigo,
I woke relating my tale
to a concerned man in an Oxford button-down
to the face hovering above a cleric's collar
to the revelation of loyalty in a former friend
then gazed behind me to cast
a sympathetic glance
on the little girl three decades removed
whose silence can finally be heard.
Scars
I.
After a bout with a hot curling iron
I can rest and redress. Red bars
scalded into my torso burn attention
away from the day's stubborn pain
that racks feet and ankles.
Circular bruises imprinted
by a hammer on my hip bones
darken to outshine the ancient scars
peering from below my knees.
Hugging these wounds, I long
for someone to love the pain away--
not even Jesus could bear
this struggle without
the help of an acid trip.
II.
Disheveled hippies share cigarettes,
get high in the front room
of a trailer--decor dating pre-1980.
A tattooed Delilah toys
with a greasy lock that hangs
from Samson's mane.
Illusions of grandeur won't survive
this age of shag carpet and avocado green.
Tie dye still stumps reason, plays
somewhere in the politics
of domestic hostilities.
III.
Groomed or not,
my bet lies
on the hair.
This Is How
Hug the pain for a while--
linger in the hurt just
long enough to remember
how it feels as you push away.
Leave the pain where you
found it--drive home
with the windows down and hard rock
ballads blaring from the radio.
(The pain will follow,
attached to your rear bumper.
Pay it no mind.)
Arrive home to find the pain
lounging in your chair--
feet up, remote in hand.
Prepare a bag of microwave
popcorn, settle in with a box
of tissues and a sad movie.
The pain will linger
until somewhere between the first kiss
and the hero's final breath, when it
will shrink and slink into a closet
or a bureau drawer to dry
like the memory of a wild flower
between the pages of who you are.
