Laura Madeline Wiseman - 2

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Courage Charm
                   sabal palmetto

My name catches like a city bus
caught by the end of a hand,
the middle a dash for a backpack 
           and a wave, no longer trail bound.

Evergreen and small, crowded 
among three sisters of kin height,
I cultivated my own fruits, learned
          what I could, grew my strength.

Now, my palms open, long and narrow,
point to pelican, sky, bay of blues--
he couldn’t step into, then—where endlessly 
           edges split and separate.

Once, I let him make me into whatever--
basket, broom, whisk, constant wife. I was
his wooden dock and pilings,
           his pole and wharf

from which he wouldn’t sail,
the sandy shore of war he rooted
toes into hot and white
           with lonely. He once found me

the hardiest of the New World--
palm, cabbage, palmetto. Again, his hunger
will be our making. After all, the plot
           calls these blades to touch.​

         Weekend Naps

After lunch had been put aside in plastic wrap
and the radio, tucked under the cabinets,
had lost the orange glow of its face,
those hours were made lawless on the acre
on the rise above the lake’s slate surface,
like the dark forest that banked the river
and the prairie soil once tilled for corn
had a hold of time and could pause it,
while you, with a preference for the wild life,
reached for me beneath white sheets
and quilts, on lace trimmed pillowcases,
as the shadows stilled below the trees
and the only sound anywhere for miles
was the gentle creak of the springs
as the tabby purred at the foot of the bed.

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One Foot Wide Bridge

We don’t know where to walk, to travel, to go. We sidestep snow, hike frozen, watch rocks to not trip into melting. Our dog, Thirteen, pulls, all puppy, laps puddles tannin dark, mossy. We are alone or not. We hike everywhere Thirteen isn’t allowed. Geese honk. Hippies shoulder kids. You’re playing a hiker, though lack pack, sustenance, or clothes to gird against otherworldly chill. I am hiker, still, share my feast on rock ledges, as we walk crisscrossing paths. I stand on a railing, lean. You ask, What are you doing? as if I might jump, as if I might need saving. I’m not going to jump. I already saved myself. I am looking for the pine forest, the place where girls giggle topless, the swords and horns in the glen. The place where long haired people in peasant clothes smoke pipes, say, Someone just built this, meaning they had no part, meaning some things aren’t human-made, that veils part, mists cloak one place from another, the place that doesn’t have to set us apart. When we find the stone stairs, the spring, the pine forest, I say, Let’s never leave. You say, Okay, because you carry no fairy charms, no hope to resurrect, no more grief and I carry no crimson jeweled mantle to test, no war-fury, no cup of ivory-gold. I am sea-born, water lady, some imaginary queen, shifting into bird, tree, and stone. We are what storytellers make of sister, brother, lover, and into popular tale. I take your hand. You hold my token. We cross this bridge forgetting what we didn’t do, and saying what we should’ve said.

Museo de la Muerta

There are many ladies of death here. That one there rides in a cart, but she doesn’t hold the reigns. That one stands in a cloak, bow held at ready. Those two there are behind glass in a case of carved men. Some of them sit in thrones like small gods. Some are merely pictures. I want to sit and stare at them, but you want to read all the plaques, aloud, and for me to make listening noises. I make listening noises in the yellow light, on the bench, eyeing each lady of death—toothy smile, scraggly hair, all those death arrows. I’m not as skinny as her, but I could be. I murmur oh, hmm. I add to your long pause, Muerta—death gendered female.

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