Cheryl Townsend

SHE

When she decides,
she will open
a door;
faking dawn;
over dusty optics,
shoulders.

When she decides,
she will pull
up a stool;
turning heads,
coaxing elbows
from sodden oak.

When she decides,
you will strike
a match;
drawing smoke
from a burning
rose.

When she decides,
you will raise
a hand;
specifying ice and lemon.

You cannot
tempt fate;
her heels
(determined)
on the damp
paving.

Coming out of
the rain,
when she decides.

Sue Johns

 

1976

Her grandfather was a notorious
Madison Avenue
song and dance man,
who penned the grammatically incorrect jingle:
Winston tastes good like a
(clap!) (clap!)
cigarette should.
Even two levels removed,
in our neighborhood
she was a major celebrity.

My mother's sister
had been a Busby Berkeley girl,
but somehow that didn't have
quite the same cachet
in our circle.

Her morning face
in the mirror
was sublime.

Her horoscope
always made her nervous,
no matter what it predicted
on any given day.

Her relationship with heroin
was much like the one
you would have
with your favorite pet dog.

Every random body of water
she dipped a toe into
became immense, instantly.

We oscillated that summer
like air drafting in a mine shaft,
under the Pike
with Half Head, Weird,
Captain Stupid, the Blood Countess
and Bob.

The first inheritance check

arrived on her 18th birthday.

She moved to Berlin
and almost died
in the bathtub,
on a mischievous
Thursday evening
in the spring.

Years later
she moved back to town,
married a man
who managed a toy factory,
wore DKNY exclusively
and converted to Orthodox Judaism.

I hear that
she still leaves the crusts
when she finishes
her sandwiches,
and prefers her apples
finely peeled.

I do suppose
that in this life,
it's what's up front
that counts.

d. smith