Three Poems

Lisa, Now Don't You Cry For Me

Leave the rivers
     to the rain.  There's bread to be made. 
          Pancakes shaped
like the crook of a baby-slung arm.  L

for Let-Nothing-Burn-On-The-Griddle
     for Least-You-Could-Do. 
Sing something.

That radio tune is rattling its
     Baby don't you all over my dough
          drowning out my prayers
     for the yeast to return.  Yes

tears are for washing the feet of the dead
     but me, I've got a few more days
          wearing gingham and eating
honey straight from the spoon.  Child, you know
     the bees keep humming
           though we steal from them
     through the smoke of rotton wood.


La De Dah

Will you take a look at Lisa?
         That girl’s got her good jeans on
               got cleavage peeking
          see-through shirt
shoot, more like a bra
          even got her mom waiting
               in that beat-down Skylark
while she la-de-dah’s
          in the health food aisle. 

They don’t live but a block
          from Salem Baptist. 
You know the yard
          with all the poppies
               looking louder than a barn
          full of she-cats in heat. 

Last week, Aunt Lizzy saw them
          stealing rose clippings
               from Tonya’s trash bin. 
Ain’t it just like the godless
          to walk clear past
               the bleeding stained glass
          heart of Jesus
to dig through someone else’s garbage?

          Lord knows the river Jordan
               ain’t that wide. 
Now don’t you forget
          tell your daddy
                    Daisy Parker says Hi.


The Estranged Wife
     Masquerades as Lisa

Must my lips press against my own
lips in the compact mirror you left behind?

She drapes the bedsheet over her shoulders
like a ghost, walks through the empty kitchen

          wearing gingham and eating
honey straight from the spoon. 

             used the razor to sculpt her
pubic hair into hearts and arrowheads
pointing down

                   spread her legs
wide as the river delta

          got her good jeans on
                 got cleavage peeking

             Two bellies
under four breasts.  Two rivers
parting four thighs.  One hand

in her miniskirt and champagne flute
with her best swan neck poised
for the prize. 

                                    a red-lipped voice made of tobacco and words like

          moss and moving
through loam. 

but who doesn’t hum in place of lovemaking

            I might as well be
an old crow on an old scarecrow's shoulder

        a woman inside a woman’s body 

and woman again.  Double-
heavy like the moon.

both of them.  The eyes of cows.

—Lisa McCool-Grime, Lompoc, CA