Caroline Sutphin
I Remember 4-H Camp
I remember sunburn painting the peaks of my forehead,
the curves of my shoulders, the day lily fragile corners
at my bikini line, the too strong bridge of my too large nose,
a signal of ancient rock form steadiness I did not feel
in the age of swell and retreat.
I remember squinting up at a lazy flag,
returning a single finger wave of acknowledgement to me,
as we pledged loyalty to our nation and our 4-H club,
boredom like magma hissing up in suppressed yawns and shifting
weight and an itch in the lower curve of my right bra cup,
until my eye roped you in, unmoving features saying much more
than the stagnant flag.
I remember four-square, neon yellow peeling in the corners,
the rubber smack on hand on concrete a backing drum
to our melody laughter, no one ever harmonized with me
so well, standing in line hunting a breeze to cool our necks,
our shoulders meeting like two blooms in the wind.
I remember dancing with little boys to country ballads,
pulling their burning faces and unsure limbs off the walls,
stiff arms between us, their eyes looking at twinkly lights
and glow in the dark bracelets and untied sneakers,
anywhere but my eyes, while you danced with little girls
ten feet away.
I remember forgetting
my nose and my breasts and my posture,
standing by the pond, you passing your candle’s flame to mine
and we in sync releasing our lanterns across the water.
I remember two fires twirling about each other
for quite some time.
Easter Sunday
The chicken wire cross stands
in perfect symmetry to the worship hall,
stained glass tears crying to each other on either side.
The cross is haloed in Sunday palms stuck in the wire,
green fingers beckoning in the tide
of a Walmart box fan.
I walk up the aisle with a basket of
spring flowers, some tulips painted bold,
heralding summer days,
but mostly daffodils.
Daffodils, all delicacy and thin skin,
baby yellow like the soul of girl
who timidly believes in all things grand.
Daffodils, the first to bloom in lace petals,
the first to believe there won’t be another frost,
and the first to succumb in the ice
that surprises gardeners year after year after year.
I place the flowers in the chicken wire holes,
filling hollow gaps until the cross is as alive
as the meadow, as breathing as my own two lungs
beneath my Easter dress,
the daffodils clinging together
in communion.
The bulbs are lit and warmth shines through
the petals, an illusion, the sun brought down
to greet the pews,
and for the length of Sunday service,
even the daffodils have eternal life.
