It’s poetry month, you know. I don’t think a day passes by that I don’t read poetry, so highlighting April and calling it “National Poetry Month” would be like highlighting December and calling it Winter. The wonderful thing about April and poetry coinciding is this: the words for the soul offset the agony of the IRS. Okay, so that’s not true at all. But poetry does do its office. This morning, I discovered this gem from Indianapolis native, Allyson Horton, whose work is featured at Indiana Humanities this month:
Smelling the Coffee
His eyes refused to water. His heart dead
at the roots, stubborn like his father, cold
& gone now. The men in his family head
households of slow-brewed women: coffee bold
black like the cup he orders with no room
for cream or sugar to cloud bittersweet
memories of a mother masking gloom,
who saw the mug half-empty, incomplete
lying next to a husband dodging touch
while watching Monday night football, losing
sight of all the fumbles slipped through his clutch.
But Val was not his mother—torn choosing
her man’s sole happiness over her own.
Val was a woman of raw skin, teeth, bone.
by Allyson Horton
Isn’t that a beauty?
My thanks and admiration to Ms. Horton, whose way with words delights me during this ‘national poetry month,’ otherwise known as a Spring Wednesday…