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VALERIE MACEWAN
My Grandmother Waves to Dogs			

My grandmother talks to the garden hose, waves to dogs on front 
porches, and speaks to her dead friend Ethyl every night.
My Aunt Lettie thinks the Lord disagrees with daylight savings time.
And we lost my brother Jimmie John for three days last fall when 
he checked into the LeapFrog Motel instead of sitting on Daddy 
Bills deer stand in the rain.
He bought six sets of electric trains set them up in 
inter-connecting rooms and hid out, scarfing down Simps Bar-B-Que 
and driving the trains.

Daddy Bill moved the Fairlane down off the blocks in the front 
yard.
Put tires on it,
installed a new battery,
started it right up and gave it to me for my fifteenth birthday.

Now Laymon wants us to get married.
The babys due in June,
he wants to give it a name
besides Cletus or Wayne.
I want to graduate cosmetology school in June


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"Poetry endangers the established order in the soul."   poetryREpairs v07.09:097
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VALERIE MACEWAN
Ruth Poem	
	
Never alone, even with one place set,
the past eats dinner with my mother.
Vacancy, rooms to let, entertaining not 
strangers but angels in ten rooms reduced to four.
Walking images of moments, non-events, 
replace the silence of my father's death, 
as a Glenn Miller lullaby sweeps softly from the 
corner...

The caretaker learns to keep herself.

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VALERIE MACEWAN
Flora Nell Remembers			

Slanted sunlight dimmed by live oaks,
FloraNell remembers blackberry wine and children Singing victory songs 
while snatching hovering fireflies To serve as lanterns in Mason jars 
with pockholed lids In a stilled yard washed with sunset pinks.
Ruth Ann strangles the stems of Queen Annes Lace And black-eyed 
Susans, pungent, dripping bouquets Pulled from behind the chicken coop 
to pay homage To this fine day, glorious yard, and her mother.

The sweet smell of childhood sweat
FloraNell remembers the summer earth in their skin And making melodies 
of names that danced in her mind She calls them close to her, porch 
sitter, and they stand.
The yard is quiet, no more Ollie Ollie Oxen Free.
She thinks of the three boys she lost one September.
Less than five years old, damp curls clinging to their foreheads, Hot 
breaths shaking weightless bodies with raspy sounds.

For leaving comes from these ten rooms FloraNell remembers the 
children on the porch upstairs, And knows Ruth Ann has a room for her, 
a safe place, Holding boxed memories while riding swiftly in a steel 
cocoon, Suspended in the motion of an August day, she looks.
One last yard memory fades, and the voices dim with dusk, And the boys 
are gone, the circle comes round.
Ruth Ann now the porch sitter when FloraNell sleeps.



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KAHLO, Frida (1907-1954)