Months after the Crash

I e-mailed a letter
to your full account
as if our passion burns
still through the opaqueness
of night

my fingers feverishly dial
your number but the tones
go unanswered as the truth
crawls inside me inhabiting
my body

reminding me of that misty
morning when your pilot
took off from the wrong
runway
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Borrowed Parts: A Meditation on Romare Bearden’s, The Prevalence of Ritual: Conjure Woman, 1964

I read a book of stories
about goophered grapevines,
forsaken wives and cultured
clubs.

Its’ cover has begun to curl
as if trying to hide from me
that the featured woman’s, hair
is long black, asymmetrically
parted,

her eyes which watch
questioning why I have come
are borrowed from her mother’s
master,

her well defined cheeks
borrowed from an unknown
Native American,

her broad shoulders, large hands,
one of which is held half-way
up as if I have interrupted her tale
are borrowed.
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Anonymous House

White dogwood opens while purple wisteria
points toward the curb, everyone knows
this corner lot, where summer brings the girly fringe
of deep crimson crepe myrtle, and elephant ears
using their leaves like fans,
underscoring the elegance of my arched porch
but when winter arrives, the postman can’t find my house
despite the numbers that mark the red brick.

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Early Southern Spring

The rains have come and gone
last year’s roses never found winter’s rest
but can hardly resist the invitation
to cover their wrought iron arch
with a rich red blanket while the wisteria
extends it’s limbs like a dancer stretching
at the bar
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Poems by Georgia Ann Banks-Martin