Sunday Afternoon

“That’s the black section,”
my mother said.
(my dad's Trickum Valley upbringing would have forced
another word from his mouth)
we drove by, ignoring the moss
green tent covering the sunset
red dirt—we were looking for another
marker.

“No, we’ll be over there,”
my father said.
(my mom turned her back
to that other section)
we walked by, disturbing no
one and no thing—the setting
Alabama sun making our eyes squint,
and the resulting grin eerily
natural.

“Which one is mine?”
“Actually, you have two—for you and
your wife.”
I stared at the plots:
nothing special
headstones like everyone else’s
except

“It’s getting dark; we should head back.”
my father took my hand
while my mother thought she led us to the car;
behind us, my brother and his wife counted relatives;
I took one last glance at
the place I know I’ll never see
because of who would lie with me.

- Jamie L. McDaniel

(added 05.15.09)

He stands in front of me.

His posture, noticeably perpendicular to the tiled floor.
His eyes, a longing navy, the kind you imagine
when the Lady sings the blues.
His lips, a similar aching, chapped
crimson and
rough
broken,
tongue-parted.
His hair,
His hair, a natural,
intense blonde covering everything but
his head.
His torso, slightly sinewy stomach.

I look no lower.

Smell: mixture of piss and ammonia, unrecreatable
Taste: memory of my first time
Sound: belt unbuckling, buckling
Touch: my slowly shuffling denim, worn without wear; his, holey inseam

Touch: cold porcelain

He probably wanted to chat.

- Jamie L. McDaniel

(added 05.15.09)

unguided

dark brutal formalism,
butterfly under glass

collide with

talk in library, read in class:
sound meets letter; letter encounters sound,
curtsies, shimmies, and retires—
open mouths and closed eyes
try to find a cure
for loss
that begins in these pages.

yield

to deteriorating memories
capture in a big brown box:
enclose what? (besides meaning)
a jar of genuine dirt
that reveals a defensive shame
to ask why construct to deconstruct
with more than two elevators to serve
and thought about ants and peach pits and death and where the world went when eyes shut.

here is the house. it is green and white.

- Jamie L. McDaniel

(featured in the poetry forum 05.15.09)