September 21, 2011

Terry Godbey

POISON

My grandmother, a wisecracker,
burned brightly at the head of the table
on our summer visits.
My parents blistered and turned away,
missing her winks as she wagged
her tongue at my mother
and called my father
by his last name.

I indulged her with endless games
of cards, sneaking sips of beer,
taking the dollar bills she slipped me,
the butterscotch candy
and years later, her diamond ring.
My parents’ anger oozed and we’d leave
before her ginger cookies ran out.
All the long drive home
I was the outcast.
We should have left you there.

Now I stand beside her
and pat her cold hand.
I’ve never seen her quiet before,
believe it cannot last.
I’m not moving until she does.
But my parents, staring
at their shoes, insist it’s time to go.

We drive straight to a seaside park
where I picnicked as a girl
and raspberries still grow wild.
“Those could be poison,”
warns my mother.
But I ignore her,
fill my mouth with fruit
and give up my grandmother
as the berries give up
their skins. I smash them
between my teeth,
one after another,
swallow hard
and choke it all down.

from Rattle #26, Winter 2006

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November 26, 2010

Terry Godbey

MY FACE AT 46

I’ve seen enough of my mouth
wrinkled as a drawstring purse,
my parade of big teeth,
the two in front tipping forward
like drunks, my right ear higher
than the left, skewing my earrings
like weights on a grandfather clock.
God makes us like a puzzle
and sometimes he mixes up the pieces,

my little boy says. I don’t blame anyone
but dread what’s next: breasts slowly
letting go, hands speckled like trout.
Most mornings I figure why bother
and dash off without mascara
or lipstick. Is that really me,
or is it the young woman
out of a Flemish oil painting
I expect to see in the mirror, flesh firm
and unblemished, a touch of blush
from anticipation, the bowl of satiny fruit
bursting from the table
paling next to her untasted beauty,
her boundless appetites.

from Rattle #23, Summer 2005

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