Regaining My Voice

—Poetry by Ann Wehrman, Sacramento, CA
—Photos by Chris Feldman

DARK ODE TO OVULATION

blinding sun
black exhaust
eight lanes rush
to nowhere
I huddle in the dust
a bus stop
hugged by shrubs
their coral berries
heavy, ripe clumps

utility truck
belches smoke
tiny fruit like salmon roe
patter in my hair
branches bob
in toxic AM city air
aging, perhaps lifeless
my own eggs gather, too,
and dance

THE COST OF CELIBACY

It’s not that I’m blind to the poetry of daily life—
sunrise, fragrance of brewing coffee
a neighbor’s shy smile
three women sweating in an apartment laundry
100-degree summer afternoon
sidewalks steaming with sprinklers’ runoff
Natasha’s dachshund-terrier sprawled on the concrete floor

yet, making my solitary bed day after day
carefully locking my apartment door
coming home alone, eating alone
coaxing myself to sleep alone—
it seems there’s nothing about which to write

REMEMBERING DAD

Dad sang in church, his rich baritone underscoring melody
corporate job, still mowed the lawn weekends
played the part of husband, father, businessman
yet on the inside, darkness

poured over the budget each month
sitting at the dining room table
kept it to himself
no, Annie-girl, this is my job
 
came of age in the Depression
our family ate grass, a favorite story
worked the coal mines in Southern Illinois
planted trees in the Pacific Northwest, CCCs

in the end, loss
chained, overwhelmed
lived alone in a hotel, battled demons
alcohol, drugs, anything to dull pain

refusing dialysis, returned to die in Mom’s granny cottage
gave his body to science
his aged brothers planted a tree in his memory
Mom followed him, a few years later 

SPRING

Dad sulked, soaked his pain
spoiled me with lascivious attention
ignored me, then expected success
bade me serve Mom, whom I feared

when I returned home at thirty
he typed my resume by hand
when I still couldn’t find work
he barred me from living at home

after he died, I returned to their house
for a year, while Mom wound down 
gathered nerve to follow him

red ocher stems, green buds,
pussy willow branches
I’d captured in pastels
still hung on the wall by his bed
glass yellowed by smoke
from his unfiltered Camels

Mom said I could sleep in the bed
where he’d died
I hated her all over again

 
YET I STILL BELIEVE THAT GOD IS HALF-WOMAN

seven-year-olds in the garage
dirty games
my sister the ringleader

still naïve at twenty-one
I trusted a woman
went along on a trip
smoking her pot led to
forced oral sex—
to protect her drug business
she silenced me

with these harsh words
I regain my voice

Today's LittleNip:

WATER NURTURES WOOD

—Ann Wehrman

like healing fingers
your sincerity kneads my life
melts pain, digs out stubborn old growth
causes some discomfort

you comb through ratted snarls
hold water to my lips
bring me back from despair
with bright words, ask me to play

____________________

—Medusa, thanking Ann Wehrman and Chris Feldman for this lovely combination of poetry and photos today!

 “gather, too,/and dance”
—Public Domain Photo

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