Poetry – Page 3 – Sarah Stoltzfus Allen

Jim

What you do to pay the bills is not who you are, he said,
tipping his beer towards me and then taking
a long swig while I watched his eyes sparkle.

We ate our cake, chatting about the newly married
couple making spirals around the room, stopping
for a kiss whenever anyone clinked their glass.

Who you are is what you do in your spare time.
He scraped the icing from his plate, smiled
at his wife, and then leaned back in his chair.

So, my dear, who are you?

I didn’t know Jim well. He was the husband of one of my very good friends, Sarah Ryder. He recently passed, and I thought it fitting to share with the world the spectacular advice that he gave to me many years ago at a wedding reception. “What you do to pay the bills is not who you are. Who you are is what you do in your spare time.” Those simple sentences have stuck with me ever since. I repeat them to myself over and over on a regular basis. Jim was an absolute light and he will be missed.

Coffee Creamer

I wasn’t looking, and she added too much creamer.
I drank the coffee anyway,
the sweet liquid coating

my teeth and tongue with a layer
of slick sugar I wouldn’t be able to rid
myself of without a thorough brushing.

Her forearms tensed and flexed
as she balled her nightgown in her fists
and in her lap trying to hide the anxiety,

and I wondered how we had come to this place:
the serving coffee and being anxious
and not meeting each other’s gaze.

We need to talk, she said,
just as I was standing to leave.

I sat back down and waited.

Summer Jewels

She could often be found
admiring the fruits of her labor
in her fully stocked pantry –
mason jars of green beans, corn,
tomato juice, tomato sauce, various soups.
She adjusted their stacked-up lines,
shining jewels in summer colors
waiting to be enjoyed once the cold came in.

Six months after my granny died,
I watched my mother from her kitchen table,
She held the last of the green beans,
having rationed the last ten jars,
knowing that when they were gone
there would be no replacement beans
coming this summer.

Opening the jar, she let tears fall.
Silvery jewels of grief slipping silently
down her cheeks and onto her apron.
She held them up to her nose,
and then quickly dumped them
into the pot on the stove.

The last of the summer jewels
graced our Sunday lunch plates
for a final time.

The Squeeze

We gathered around the worn table,
buttering fresh bread and passing
bowls of buttered peas and mashed potatoes.

I had a horrible dream last night, he said.
I looked up from my peas and watched
him hold back tears, heard his voice
hitch up the octave, and caught a glimpse
of shaking hands before he slipped
them into his lap.

The stoic man of my childhood
has disappeared in the last twelve years,
grandkids change a man apparently.

He was lost, and I couldn’t find him, he said.
He told us how he searched everywhere –
quiet corners, shady stands of trees, the creek.
I yelled for him until my throat was raw.

I looked back at my peas and heard him finally lose
what modicum of control he had left.
But he finally came running down the hill
and threw himself into my arms.
He looked towards the living room,
seeing through the walls,
to where my youngest was silently reading
in a quiet corner with a blanket over his head.

“It was just a dream, Steve,” she said
and reached over to squeeze his hand.

While Weathering a Windstorm

The bradford pears and the redbuds
bloomed early this year.
I don’t know if there is any significance
to this phenomenon,
but it has left me feeling off kilter.

In springs past, when I finally spot
the redbuds blooming on their black branches,
it meant the long dark of winter had passed;
that I could breathe deep the sun
that floods my cells with vitamin d.

But now, with early blooms being ripped
from bending, swaying branches, I feel gutted –
not knowing if it is time to breathe
or if I still need to hide in layers of
wool and thick cotton.

Summer Tomatoes

Slicing summer tomatoes in a sleepy kitchen,
she hummed something that could
have been a hundred years old
or a song that played last night on the radio.
Golden waves obscured her face,
and I couldn’t see the smile I knew was there.
Couldn’t see the way her lips turned down
at the corners in delightful, exquisite mischief.

Dripping fingers arranged thick slices
on a plate too formal for this moment,
the crunch of salt and pepper grinders
breaking the silent, ardent air.

When she tipped her head back, popped
a ruby half-slice between her kiss-swollen lips
I couldn’t help but make my way to her.
I caught her smile then, a laughing look that said
every word my heart needed, and then some.
Soft curves fit against all my angles
and I wanted summer tomatoes,
the press of her warm, sleep-quiet body against mine
for the rest of my life.

Goldenrod and Ironweed

Why are you crying, my love?

She wiped her eyes,
sniffled her nose,
and lifted her gaze to the window
above the sink.

The goldenrod and ironweed are blooming,
she said, slipping her hands into soapy water.
The earth is settling her melancholy
deep into my bones,
unfurling her funeral flowers alongside
roads and in the low, wet places of the hills,
one last majestic sight
before fading into rust and gold.

One last burst of color to hold
during the long, bleak of winter.

That is the most poetic way I have ever heard
anyone describe their allergies, my love.