Archives for category: Poetry and Prose

Bride Doll

The first and only Christmas I can

recall before they took us away

I was sitting on the far side of the

living room near the door, beside

an open stairway, removed from my

family as I opened my only gift.

 

She was small, pale, and hard

with shiny, slick flesh—except where stark,

grotesque angles hinged every stiff

joint, the only way to manipulate her.

Her hair was like black spun silk, coiffed

in glue so that to comb would destroy.

 

I cringed at her eyes, lifeless and cold, like lapis,

a stoic expression toward marital bliss.

 

Tears beaded down her white-on-white

floral taffeta gown as I blurted out

to my grandmother, It’s ugly!  But

what I didn’t say—couldn’t say—

was how she frightened me.

I was an ungrateful child.

I got what I asked for.

– Mary E. Kocher

Transcendence

 

always begins

when we aren’t

paying attention.

 

First freeze sucks

shades of celadon,

emerald, loden

from spent foliage.

 

Chlorophyll sinks

into branches, trunk

and roots: a forced

transcendence.

 

Pigments once hidden:

amaranth, mauve,

topaz, amber, coral,

cinnabar, sienna, bay…

 

releasing, floating on

unseen wings, gently

coming to rest,

raked into a heap:

 

a soft coffin.

 

I will surrender

smiling, falling

backward, dazzling

death, buried alive.

 

By the time my body

becomes alabaster,

dove, ebony,

silver ashes—

 

I am already gone.

– Mary E. Kocher

Forget-Me-Nots

How delicate their disposition.

Startled black eyes beset with sapphire lashes

 peer upward at oblivious passers-by

Tiny, sad blooms gather with their own,

keeping a low profile, thus

slighted and crushed

beneath

our

feet.

They

require

 so

little

care

before

they

fade

and

wither.

                                                                                                                                                                                         –  Mary E. Kocher

The ice had been building up for years,

the kind of thing you want to ignore

until everything begins to crack

from the pressure and weight of it all.

 

Then you’re overwhelmed at the thought of                            

all that picking, hacking away at it.  You

keep looking away until one day you realize

that no one else is going to do anything about it.

 

So I emptied the freezer, put everything on the table.

I thought a little warmth might help melt away

what time and coldness had buried only to realize

this would be neither a brief nor simple undertaking.

 

I’d have to be fast, considering how things can spoil

in time. So in the gentlest, most careful, but deliberate

manner, I began to tap gently at the ice. Initially, nothing

budged; it seemed wiser to leave it alone for a while.

 

But that would mean having to endure the sound

of that constant drip, like my falling tears, dreading

what I knew lay beneath the coldness—a real mess. 

I was trying to avoid a complete breakdown.

 

I left for a while then returned to remove the remaining ice,

trying to avoid further damage. Great chunks fell with

ease now, exposing a large hole on the left side. As I gently

cleaned the empty space, I asked myself, Why did I wait so long?

                                                                                                                                                   – Mary E. Kocher

 

 

Our teachers

sent us home

with tiny trees to plant—

before green was

en vogue.

 

The same temporary

dad who taught me

how to tell time, helped

his daughter and me

to plant our baby oaks,

 

side by side.

Days later, when ruffians

knocked mine down,

I wept as if my spindly

sapling possessed a soul—

 

as if the brokenness were

my own flesh.

 

Since my tears never ended

quickly, I am sure they watered

my tree the day I knelt opposite

Dad as he splinted and bound it

with popsicle sticks and string.

 

I returned often to examine

the wound, forgetting even

that it was mine by

midsummer when I moved

to the next foster home.

 

I was 19 when

Mr. White said, Look,

Evie. that’s your tree;

it’s the bigger of the two—

and stronger.

 

Some things I never really

forget but don’t realize

until tears tell me not

all that is wounded

and broken dies.

Last week I paid

earnest money for

a lot with two trees;

my home will be

built between them.

– Mary E. Kocher

     (for Dikra)

I left my blood

in America,

having once believed

I could not live

without it. More than

four thousand miles,

mostly Atlantic,

my soul stretched

the distance,

whose fearful face

separated me from

my own, yet a

threefold cord is

not quickly broken—

like the priceless

one that binds you

to your grandmother

in Baghdad.  Still,

I wonder if you know

how beautiful you are.

From your easy lips

syllables floated

with elegance,

gently, as soft as

dove’s down,

incorruptible

as gold,

hot, fresh

from the crucible

of your soul,

precious ore

overflowing.

I felt the drawing

like Jesus sensed

strength leave him

when the woman

with an issue of blood

touched His garment and

was healed,

I felt the drawing.

I am no Jesus, but

I leaned in to hear

your soul’s whisper

rise like the cry

of Abel’s blood

from the earth

that were it up

to us rather than

governments,

we would teach

our children’s

hands to war                      

no more.

Mary E. Kocher

 

While my children

sleep

sweetly

in their beds

 

I steal outside

to lie atop

pearly drifts

beneath

an onyx expanse

sparkling flakes

are melting

diamonds

 

Kiss my lashes

peck my cheeks

wet my lips

fill my mouth

saturate me

 

I am torn

whether

to stay

or to lift

my wings

like an angel

 

I look

toward

Heaven,

and I wonder,

How will I

teach

 my little ones

to fly?

                                                     –  Mary E. Kocher

Neither remembers whose thought it had been

or what drove them, armed with a gnarly branch

and my flower garden hand tools (Shepherd-mix

dog, their only witness), to dig a hole to Hell.

 

After a long dry spell, white patches from a decades-

old salt pit had surfaced on the bare spots. Had they

been caught red-handed, they might have been

warned how shallow the dirt was above the clay.

 

Surreptitiously they kneeled between the rusty

swing set, the woodshed, and the dog house,

gouging Satan’s roof  until they saw red—

clear evidence Hell couldn’t be that far below.

 

Hearts racing, they shoved it all back, faster

Than you could name the seven deadly sins,

deciding Hell was closer than they’d realized—

and waited nearly twenty years to tell their mother.

-Mary E. Kocher

 

I wrote: STUPID

 

like a banner above your

sixth grade photo and

tossed it into my annually

increasing collection

 

only to forget what you

did to warrant this

deeply etched indigo

over your head.

 

Why I had christened

you my sole, secret

victim, or even why

I held onto your

 

desecrated likeness,

I could not recall when

my daughter, laughing,

spied it in the heap.

 

After you were

elected Sheriff

of LawrenceCounty,

you said to me,

 

What I remember

most about you is

how I envied your

beautiful penmanship.

– Mary E. Kocher

 

Mom had to have her Pall Malls.                               

Don’t cross until the light turns red.                                                                           

 

We spot a red light but don’t understand

it’s for cross-traffic at University Avenue—

never mind that a pickup is barreling toward us.                               

 

I dawdle behind my seven-year old sister as she

blindly follows Mom’s vague instructions and

winds up flat on her back on the pavement—out cold.

 

Mom screams bloody murder. I don’t understand

her, or maybe I just don’t want to remember.

 

I turn to see her outline: a petite, emaciated woman

wearing a fitted print sundress, her long, black curls

pulled tautly into a ponytail, spindly arms flailing at

 

the truck driver like the wings of a foxed-chased hen,

feet frozen to gray wood planks on our column flanked porch.

 

By the time the ashen driver delivers my sister’s small, limp,

scraped-up body into Mom’s trembling arms, she comes to.

 

After a trip to Mercy’s Emergency Room, we’re all 

in the living room. Mom sits quietly, her jade eyes vacant.

 

Surrounding laughter competes with my pounding heart

as I study her, cradled on Dad’s lap, her head bandaged

like a mummy’s, his arms wrapped about her like wings. 

 

My sister smiles faintly, not her usual teethy grin,

clear aquamarine eyes teary, then looks away.

 

I am unable to block the image of her with closed eyes;

her motionless body lying in the street overrides—

 

replays inside my head like a reel-to-reel film strip

that snaps and dangles when it reaches the end.

                                                                                                                                        – Mary E. Kocher