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| Junket in the Spring |
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| Ann Marie Bouet |
Kolomoki Park
Sunlight hits the water
like stars cast down
to shatter into daylight.
Ducks swim across
the sky's reflection
spread dark wings
oblivious to visitors
on the shore.
Under the gazebo
wheelchair bound
you watch them
and admire their mastery
of flight.
O'Henry, asleep beside you,
dreams with restless feet.
Raised on city streets
where trees had fences
and wharf rats were
the common wildlife
we are tourists here
street smarts worthless
where children fish with
bamboo poles, pull
dinner from the lake
skills we never learned
or thought we'd need.
A hidden chorus
from the rushes, warn
alligators scent the dog,
send us unstrung, undone,
to the safety of the car
peeling barks and laughter
in our wake.
It Never Used To Matter
It never used to matter
where heaven was
a place indeterminate
with cotton clouds
and Sunday hymns.
But then you died
and it became important
to know exactly where you were,
where you had gone after
I closed your eyes and sat
as if struck by lightning
while the priest anointed you
and the undertaker asked questions.
A moment alone with you
my last rite, a lock
of your curled dark hair,
so that when they cremated you
and gave me back a brass box
no bigger than a humidor, telling me
this was you
Then I would go and sit
on the edge of our bed
open this envelope and find
a lock of your hair
folded inbetween paper sheets
touch this part of you
and try somehow to believe
in all the parables handed down
from one grave to the next.
Bio: Ann Marie Bouet is a nice, Irish, Catholic girl raised in Queens, N.Y. Moved to Miami to overcome these handicaps and is now able to say "sorry you have the wrong number" in two languages; currently lives in rural Ga. where her neighbors believe she is a member of the witness protection program.
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