~ fall 2oo8 ~
issue #11

IMAGES

steve hammond

WORDS

archives: ladonna eastman

breakfast

nearly narcissus

sister, sister

skinned

nearly narcissus

i feel the ranting, the anxious raves moving in
sunny realization smacks me as i brush the darkness of my hair
the tides are turning and i know why
as i smile into the foggy depths of the emotionless bathroom mirror
i drip-dry on the cold pale floor and the circle is growing round
these seasons are wet and green again

i am sprouting

melancholy blooms from my forehead, small rages
of can't-be-stills peek from the soles of my once muddy feet
there are spikes of wandering muse greening the tips of my fingers
buds of careless thought form new lumps in my uncommon throat
thick choking tangles of a southern moss curl about the bone of my shoulders
while a million bloody rushes catch my breath

i try to breath deeply

a thin reedy noise threatens to fly out into the stream
of soon to be troubled water and the bathroom carries sound
like an echo chamber with the circles ebbing into my ears
but with two blinks and a tug of the hairbrush
i disperse the plant life i might become, the curling moss
now pulled straight into shining tinsels of a deeper brown
i look down to find no reaching roots tendrilled to anchor, to nourish me

i must move or grow careless

© ladonna eastman

sister, sister

she is anarchy
burnt french toast flaming
she is a bright ghost in holy sunlight
she wears sunglasses to watch tv
inside and the habits
of more glamorous creatures escape her
in the morning
she wills herself to exist
there are assassins in taco bell
where she lives
adventures to be had in every corner
and for every person who comes
to know her

she is milkweed
spider webs caught in your hair
once you've met her you can't
forget her there on the side of the road
she beckons you to hitchhike
to turn the tide
to make use of your own shadow
the night becomes her
stars and bats
she sleeps in a closet
makes bedrooms from garages
she always has room in her house
for one more

she is gasoline
a lit match
a school bus going ninety
she hates nothing and keeps everything
her soul is generous to most
merciless to some
she fluctuates
between absolute determination
and complete apathy
wants to be a hermit someday
or wife to a millionaire
she does not fit in and
doesn't want to

she is well aware
ill-kempt, the kettle black
she is nothing perfect
nothing short of a white lie
a bitter truth
a pill box hat would not flatter her
she misunderstands logic
opts for more interesting roads to take
and tries for all it's worth
to get lost but she
has roadmaps in her head
and all points of destination
intrigue her

she is rum punch
on a beach in the middle of the day
slumming till nightfall
she struggles with the daily rituals of life
there are little demons following her
and angels too
she will break your heart
but let you keep your money
she has no use for promises
contracts, guilt, lies or war
she is easily amused
a magnet for weirdness
and then some

she is mary
is disguise
in dire need of a christ
she is taking a long time to mature
her purpose is hidden from her
she seeks out the unknown
wishes she had more time
to meander in meadows
to check out minute things
like leaf veins
and there is nothing you can say
to make her stay when she
wants to go

© ladonna eastman

Published in Women Who Write, the 1999 Literary Anthology from University of Louisville, KY.
KY Women's Poetry, 2nd Place

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skinned

all rusty and wet as blood
from my guillotine smile falling
down, down, down
and it's hard to hold on
to such a slick surface
when all is slipping, slipping
while i pretend to caress
or create or clasp
with these slender nails
frazzled as a toothbrush
grazing across my hard surface
impenetrable yet yielding to
the removal of film and façade
and i'm shiny, shiny bright
as a fish beneath
this veneer

© ladonna eastman

Published in: Writing Who We Are: Poems by Kentucky Feminists Editors: Elizabeth Oakes & Jane Olmsted, WKU Press, 2000

breakfast

Words were on her skirt, blue apron, pointy shoes. On the furniture, too, carved in with bobby pins, and somebody was in trouble. Words spewed from the skillet, fried up in bacon grease and garlic - mustard words that stuck to the walls. The ceiling fan sprayed vowels across the room. My grandmother would cook up words, write words, sing words. She wrote letters on the piano keys, wrote colors on blackboards for me, my brother, younger sister. Sometimes shouted, sometimes whispered, rarely hoarded, always on the menu.

My grandmother was made of words and she served them up to little children, even the grown up ones. "Go look it up!" She'd write an assignment every half an hour, a quote every day. The hymnals, the notebooks, the big black bible on the coffee table with big black words for small eyes to swallow - in shallow waters, we dog-paddled. Waded in an ocean of language that pooled and splashed white pants, muddied slender hands, clumsy feet. Glossed lips.

Words formed man, words formed me and I formed words. The call and beckon of shadows and innuendo, inflection. I learned to understand the adult languages even though small, quite small at five writing on sheets and lying to be saved. At six, a little book of rabbits tied with red yarn. Then ten, "don't you have anything better to do besides write all day?" But I stayed - stayed till I was 22, grew roots, cast anchor - set.

Then I fed it to my own children - through breast, then bottle. The words they were spoon-fed on as they grew had traveled down through the mountains of my grandmother's breasts (twice removed). The words sunk into their skin, grew out like fins, fine hairs. Frogs. We were transformed. We created magic, mystery, love and hate, the warm safe sentence of home, time.

Words are now written on our own walls, they tattoo our hands, grace our faces. In our eyes, language shines. It lines our closets and spring jackets, fluffs our pillows, makes the bed, warms us. We use their light to see in darkness so others also might. Words decorate the kitchen, and the vibrations of our teeth rattle joyfully against the syllables we gulp down every day.

© ladonna eastman