Hope Walks on Thin Ice
I pick a dandelion
its yellow life gone.
Scrunch up my eyes
take a deep breath, blow
wisps of hope into the air.
I fear cracks on lakes
broken vows and my father.
Prayer
a steeple of fingers rests
on my grandmother Ruby’s
quilt of violets and lily
of the valley.
The ice calls me or is it
my father?
I hug a tree, my cheek
against rough bark, ridges
like tiny rivers of hope.
Still
the ice calls.
Let Me Go but Hold Me
French corsets
pink ribbons tied
in sailor knots
gather up my pieces
break and mark
me yours.
I am a map
of blue veins you follow
to my salt and honey
sticks sweet to your fingers
your hazel eyes in mine
deeper as wave after wave
lifts me, throws me down
crushing my body on stones
as the undertow rips me away.
“You are mine”
his muffled last words.
I catch a fish
between my teeth
its tail thrashing.
On High
He would have savored
the rinsing of his insides
with wine and spices,
meeting death
a bit tipsy.
I saw him wrapped
in linen sheets lying
in a sarcophagus
like an Egyptian king.
I placed beside him
things he might need
on the other side.
His red-pocket bible,
Yankee cap, the syringe
he would hide
in his crumpled sock.
In a dream
my body on top of his
floated amid towers
of salt, rising out
of turquoise waters.
Party at Peabody Cemetery
Mother rises from her grave, swings
through the gates of Cemetery Avenue
heels hovering above the wet earth
happy in the company of so many
prestigious souls.
She works the graveyard like it’s her
salon. Chester Harding, the portrait
painter, wants mom to pose for him
in the nude. Rev. Peabody slinks
away in disgust.
She laughs, throws her head back,
sways over to Pete Seeger’s dad.
He teaches her “Good Night, Irene.”
She sings it like a torch song off key,
to the Civil War soldiers.
nothing like men in uniforms
They applaud, hoot, raise
their glasses to toast her.
One by one they ask if they
might have the next dance.
She’s the “it” girl of the dead.
Elegy to Myself
I improvised a life
arrived too late to apologize.
Became so light I rode a red balloon
to tease the stars.
Are there star cemeteries ?
Who would dare shovel a thing so bright
into a cold worm hole. I have stolen what
was not given, gave
what was not asked for, steam-rolled love
as I walked away.
I dig a hole, fill it
with peaches and peonies
Moss covers me. I am warm.
I squeeze a lemon till it explodes in yellow,
Inhale coffee beans born
between Capricorn and Cancer.
I apologize for dying.
Christine Penney lives in New York City. She acted in the Bay Area and in many black box stages in NYC. She co-wrote a one-woman show about the life of German Artist Kathe Kollwitz and played her. Came to writing late and had her first poem published in 2021. She workshopped with Ellen Bass, Bill Zavatsky, Jericho Brown and Erin Redfern. She read with the Poets and Writers Intergenerational Program and the Word Shed.
