Thanks to Coleen, Lena's mom, who made this animation of Bekah. Meet Lena another victim of vehicular homicide

Guess I tripped toeing in. I’m just a clod
In these passé sandals. My weak-kneed plies
Creaking from the pressure of overheated synovium
Guess you saw my lips count out a crippled cadence
As I shuffled clumsily and so earnestly you nearly
Pitied the cacophony presenting to the symposium

But that would be feeling. Feeling reeling
Out of control. To reveal a soul that responds as though
A poem renders life and death through experience
Interpreted via the dance of language would be
So human. So respectful. So inattentive to the primacy
Of a purely virtual primarily derogatory cult of personality

I so tearful and sincere and though not always succeeding
Mindful of the need to be concrete. My sub-topic stronger than me.
Much larger than the subject of poetry yet
Not even mildly daunting to the studied disdain of the
Poetry board stalinesque expert who taps heavily away
On insults. Guess I would have to say

That’s where you surprised me.
Yes, clumsy me with so much time on my hands
Since my only daughter died. Guess my grace got buried;
Unfortunately they didn’t bury me. I keep breathing and I love poetry.
Recent events drive me to sheaves and reams and
Many devoted pages smeared with just the sort of
Rhyming rumination you relish detesting albeit non-specifically

Who can carry a tune to a subject so profound? Who could be dumb
Enough to think there might be anything
Redeeming or artistically worthy about her mundane grief?
Eh. does not warrant critique. No one wants to view an anonymous grave
Or hear a mother of all people say it was only lately
A slender body and solid beauty did animate
The stoneless bones and beatless heart that move her two left feet.

© Barbara Bales 2001 - 2007 all rights reserved

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