by Cindy Ray

Me and the Alvarez

The Alvarez is like a man
who doesn’t quite love me.
I cradle it in my arms
and watch a pagan fire
flicker inside the ragged
circle of rusty iron ore rocks.
Son House is moaning
on the box inside the shack
and boudin plumps and steams
on the woodstove.
A sleepy one-eyed game rooster
harrumphs at the wailing
(who’s that writing? John the Revelator)
and ten blue-eyed
cur dogs bark at the hard
November stars, rustling
leaves and the padded nightsteps
of animals we can’t see.
My feet move closer to the fire
and I plink those silly whitegirl
chords, trying to find some
dark part of my soul to
make the blues come out
raw and bloody and full of
sweat and cemetery dust.
Later I will lie beside the
man who could play the Alvarez
if he would, but he won’t.
I will stare up at the corrugated
tin ceiling and smell the spent
pork on the woodstove. I
imagine the Alvarez in my arms,
an empty beer bottle against
the neck and the ghost of
Son House guiding my
hands.
___________________________

On Death and Baseball

It used to be a churchyard,
laid with the quiet Baptist dead,
until it became a baseball field.
Though it is seldom said
during glorious Hornet victories
and amid visitors’ defeats,
that our whirling, powdered ancestors
dance underneath our cleats.
One gray stone still stands today
between the dugout and the bleachers
Old rebel Etienne Reppond rests,
(As familiar as our teachers)
Venerable member of the C.S.A.
and as unlikely as it seems,
he faces east to greet the Host
and scowl at other teams.
We know not where the others sleep.
There are no records, charts or maps.
We sit in the sun and shout for runs
with nachos in our laps.
At Linville High we cheer the game
without thought for curse or fate.
Without a glance at death disturbed
and we almost always go to state.
____________________________________

Church Ladies

they maneuver in squadrons
tight square formations armored in
bullet-proof double knit
a-lines and sheaths in shades of
ivy
velveeta
cream of mushroom
rings set with the birthstones
of every child and grandchild
they move in a cloud of
juicy fruit and avon
charisma
cotillion
occur!
white foam heads stand guard
bald and eyeless at home
while baptist soldiers wear helmets
cemented with wiglets and prell
lady clairol
dippety do
aqua-net
green bean casserole and lemon pie
pyrex dishes and tupperware
a thrifty length of freezer tape
autographed in magic markers
irene
barbara
mildred
they teach you a bible verse
you learn jesus loves me
and they are kind enough
though their own children are
neater
smarter
quieter
and you wonder during the service
if life ever touched them
if they ever pooted in the bathwater
or gave a boy a hickey
or screamed
or lied
or came
surely not