three poems

All She Wrote

She left him
a letter
scratched
on yellow paper
tacked
inside of
his underwear
drawer

Bridal Wreath

No, Mama, I won’t
have bridal wreath
at my wedding.
I’m not late this time.
Don’t look at me
like you don’t know
what I’m talking about.
You think we’re getting
married right out of school
because I’m pregnant,
don’t you. You always
assume the worst. Like
when I didn’t come right
back from Aunt Sue’s
where you sent me.
No questions—just
switching till my legs stung
from the spirea
I had to break and bring you.
Do you think I can’t wait
till we’re married
to have a baby?
Well—you count
the months and they will
be more than nine,
a lot more than the seven
between your wedding and me.

Homemade Divinity

“We’re old enough. I’m already
fifteen, and Judy soon will be,” I said.
Cousins in each other’s clothes,
almost exactly the same age,
we always wanted the same things.
Tonight, to date two older guys.
But Mama was emphatic: ask them
over to my house, or forget it.
At the card table, in the living room,
Judy’s idea: strip poker.
At first beginner’s luck:
my three queens, her flush of hearts—
the guys lost shoes and socks.
Then our inexperience showed.
I was down a ring and both sandals
when Sam, my date, complained,
“Toe nail polish doesn’t count.”
“Does so,” Judy said. “Five toes
are good as one man’s sock.”
She hoped to postpone losing
her half slip under her summer skirt.
A tap from the kitchen door,
then my big sister, wise to our game,
brought in a plate of homemade divinity,
each luscious piece of candy rounded,
I swear, with a nipple on top,
just like my virgin breast.
“Why aren’t you dancing?” she asked,
starting the record player.
“I’ll teach the guys the Swing.”
Hearing the music Mama, too, came
with jokes from television,
sipping something dark.
“How ‘bout some of that wine?” Sam asked.
“Only a communion cupful for you,”
she laughed, bringing some for all of them
but not for us, of course—still too young.