SUE LITTLETON : Family Heirloom
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POETRYREPAIRS v12.01:001
contemporary international poetry - for your reading pleasure,
poetry from new and established poets and essays on writing


All the fine arts are species of poetry--Samuel Taylor Coleridge




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SUE LITTLETON
Family Heirloom
Nancy Crockett was eleven when she got the typhoid -- tucked the grave's green blanket neatly around herself, and went to sleep beneath her tombstone. She had named her doll – who knows? but as the doll drifted down through the family she became Nancy 's namesake.   A hundred years later my maiden aunt and I would unwrap Nancy from her lime velvet winding cloth, once a splendid 1920's tea gown, smooth the dull shattered silk of her dress, the dark human hair framing the insane little face – for, if a doll could be mad, Nancy was raving. Eleven inches from round head to pointy shoes painted on her feet, kid-glove hands with sewn flat fingers, hard rag body with unbendable legs– Nancy's black glass-bead eyes glared malevolently at us over crackled wax cheeks – which is why most of the time she was confined to a drawer.   When she finally came to me, I dressed her in yellow-sprigged navy calico and put her on display. But those wicked little eyes unnerved visitors, who unanimously advised me to find her another home (but not one volunteered to adopt her!) Nancy made you think of effigies, poppets, unpleasant, hooked-nosed old ladies out to test the evening air on a fast broomstick   I returned her to another drawer, whence she emerges on occasion to glower unrepentantly until I feel those jet eyes at my back and decide it's time for her to retire once more from view. And yet .. uncomfortable as she may be as a companion, I am fond of her.  In the balance, Nancy is family.
POETRYREPAIRS 12.01:001
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I have many things to write unto you but   I will not write with pen and ink
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POETRYREPAIRS 12.01: 001
Poetry endangers the established order  of the soul - Plato





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BESS KEMP
Tyrant
Cancun in summer is so hot you can see steam rise like old ghosts off the asphalt there is no escape in the shade of yucca because an errant breeze always brings heat to your hut on the beach you have nothing to protect you from the dogged reality of life without that certain barrier of comfort but there is always the water blue-green cool that sweeps the heat from your soul while you float in its salty arms detached.. there is always that.
POETRYREPAIRS 12.01: 001
SUE LITTLETON : Family Heirloom
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PEGGY MEEKS-KING : Tyrant

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