~ Delta Poetry Review ~

Uncanny Valley

She looks like she’s about to cry, this doll
sitting untouched in an antique shop
in Hemphill, Texas in the piney woods.
A raven mop of hair sits on her shoulders,
thick but frayed by years of sun and dust.
She has a single dimple on her chin,
full alabaster cheeks, reminding me
of the baby fat that I too had,
and little pursed carnation colored lips.
Her open eyes gaze into mine as if
she wants a lollipop, a kitten that she found
while wondering these sleepy village streets,
or maybe to be held within my arms.

If I gave in and lifted her up off
this dusty shelf, I know my mind would fill
with memories of holding dolls like her—
running through endless fields of corn together,
staining their skin and clothes with elderberries,
chopping off their hair and wishing it,
like mine, would grow. I’d tuck her in a wooden crib,
where once I’d slept, and dream of how tomorrow
would unfold just like a fairy tale.

I know that if I hold her in my arms,
the ice of porcelain on my elbow’s crook
will wake me from this dream. She’s not my doll.
She’s not a little girl. She isn’t real.

The farm was sold so many years ago.
Bulldozers took the elderberry tree.
That mop of raven hair will never grow.
I threw the wooden crib away in grief.

And so, I’ll leave her there, this doll, a piece
of history, a moment’s reminisce of what
I had, of what I am, and what I’ve lost.

Beaumont Bloom

Have you ever seen a flare stack bloom?
The sunset hue of flames tongue-kiss the sky
at night, outshining even stars. A plume
of smoke arises like a butterfly
from its crimson flower as ethereal
clouds dissipate into obscurity.
Amidst the soaring grasses made of steel,
you hear the blaze’s whirr of industry,
like the buzzing of a hummingbird,
its wings a blur of color as it hovers.
It burns what poisons us, a faithful lord
that fills this vista with its lustrous colors,
Squint your eyes and gaze into the flare.
You might even find some beauty there.

Urban Jungle

Coming into Houston, you will see
how the skyline rises like a cypress
thicket from the swamps of yesterday.

Pedestrians, like fire ants, march along
the sidewalks on a mission to expand
this forest made of concrete, glass, and steel,
as others buzz around this bustling landscape,
emerging from their air-conditioned hives
to sip the nectar offered at the bars
that bloom like jessamines on every corner—
their colorful umbrellas opening
each spring to offer respite from the sun.

Hear the semi roaring in the distance
announcing to the jungle he’s the king.
The soundscape drowns him out with trilling
cell phones ringtones, howling trains, the dawn
chorus of rush hour’s honking horns.
Take in the scents of life—the dulcet breath
of magnolia and gasoline.
The summer air feels thick against the skin
as mist arises from the steamy bayous
and the smokestacks to create a cloud
forest that always seems to pulse with life.

Beware. This wilderness can swallow you
between its alleys or sweep you off your feet
in the raging rivers of its traffic.

But this wilderness can nourish, too—
it tastes of brisket, Viet Cajun crawfish,
chili con queso—the fruits of all the toughest
weeds who dug their roots into this soil
laced with benzene and survived—and thrived.

It’s almost lovely how the highways wind
like kudzu vines around the live oak trees,
how the golden Texas sunflowers
burst on any little patch of soil,
in drought and flood, bloom rampantly and fill
what little space remains within this jungle.