Poetry From JoAnne
by JoAnne Henderson

It is Thanksgiving weekend, and one of the things that makes me grateful is this opportunity to put some of my work "out there." I don't take advantage of this opportunity nearly enough, but I'm a wife, mother, grandmother, and full-time student--what can I say? Sometimes Carol Wood has to kick me in the posterior to get me moving

I've been in a poetry writing workshop this semester, so I've decided to go out on that proverbial limb and show you some of what I've written. I think of myself as a fiction writer, and did not have a clue there was any kind of a poet inside. So--if you are into fiction, try writing a little poetry (with the door locked and the shades pulled down if you must). You might be surprised at the results.

SCARS

As I scrub my body in the shower,
soap suds sliding down the drain,
my fingers find the scar on my right hip--

an ancient sccar, thick and white,
from falling off a steel trash can
onto a milk bottle when I was five--

blood mixing with cream and broken glass
the babysitter's first day on the job,
the worried, weeping babysitter--

My mother came from work,
hugged the shaking woman,
told her she still had a job--

told me, from across the room,
"Stop crying, you'll be fine."
No hug. Another scar.

BETRAYAL

Too bright the star
that lit our hiding place,
where Papa and I took shallow breaths
and quiet steps,
where we shared crusts
of bread and whispered Hamotze

Too bright the star
when they found us huddled together
pried us apart beat us
when we knew their lust for violence
their insatiable lust

Too bright the star
that showed my father's torment
when he saw my battered torso
shredded clothes
when we saw the star betrayed us
the yellow star on Papa's sleeve

AFTER 30 YEARS OF MARRIAGE

He brews coffee
four scoops of hazelnut
a dash of cinnamon
his mug parked next to hers.

It's not
the black liquid or swirl of cream
he's thinking of
but the way
they sip coffee after loving,

not the steamy mug
too hot to touch
but the way
they heat the rumpled sheets
on Sunday mornings.

He wants to bring her buttercups
to hold under her chin
but instead he brings her coffee
Sunday after Sunday
year after year.