a poetry e-zine

 

 

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

Poems By Caroline Randall

Rinds

 

 

Your skinny collar and hipbones

are the pale rinds of  watermelons stripped

of their meat, their rosy pulp and peppered

seeds that glistened in the sun this morning

as we ate at the white wicker table.

 

You are firm and hollow

pressed against my cheek and belly, soft linen

and the clink of your necklace are against my teeth

when I speak.

 

Embracing, I hold in the comforting smell

of your shirt, big sister, as I bury my face

in the notch of your neck,

saying I’m so so sorry.

 

Pulling away, you go to tidy the kitchen

where we splattered cream and sugar

on the black granite.  But half way there

you stop for a pause, and turn around

 

and pat to the bathroom, still bleeding

your child that didn’t thrive.

 

 

 

 

Orange Peels

 

 

She doesn’t notice the orange peels

hardening into the whiskey spilled

on the coffee table like the dried peach pig ears

his bristly mutt mouths on the door landing.

Even the sun and dust tripping

through the open door eddy against

the fever of the broken space heater.

Someone hits the pothole out front

with a metal gulp and the black dusted

overhead fan ticks a beat with the calcified faucet

leak in the bathroom.  But a hole in the wall

she swears is shaped like Spain

churns a cold draft from inside

the first door on the left tacked

with a jazz poster and a lipstick mark

 

where he says I want the river of your mouth

as the hot spill of day drags over her.

She says But I’m the second chapter

and you only loved the first.

 

Soon she’ll leave the room and realize

even Spain was trying to blow her North

as the grass cools above its meat

during the chill of night just as the vein blue

and apricot meet above the rags of trees.

 

 

Caroline Randall is a graduate of the University of Mississippi where she received the Ella Sommerville Award for poetry.  She likes Barry Hannah and breakfast food. 

Copyright 2010  Chantarelle's Notebook