Micropoetry Monday: Irony

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When she gave birth to the daughter
who would cause her screams,
she did not know she was giving birth
to her own death 20 years later-
a death that would silence those screams.

She lived a life without regrets,
but then, she had no memory.
It was bliss.

For if only he’d known she’d asked for him,
he would’ve never left Tara,
with Ashley alone & aggrieved—
Ashley, a milquetoast remnant of The Old South.
This Old South,
burnt & faded from Bonnie Blue
to bleached denim,
was now ashes that were
gone with the wind.

She was sorry she ever lied,
for because of her lie,
the lie became a truth.

For she’d wanted 7 children
& 1 husband,
but ended up with 7 husbands
& 1 child–
all because she had put
her husbands before the 1.

#Fiction Friday: #Micropoetry from the Book


Mother didn’t like to talk about her childhood, & I began to wonder if there was something in it that would explain what was happening now.

Mother told me not to love David too much, but I wondered, how could I love him any more?

I didn’t want to hear how my father had loved me, for I’d chosen David over him since the first time I saw him.

“Someday, you will understand, Katryn,” Mother said. “Just know I will finally be able to pay the debt I owed your father.”

Something wonderful was going to happen—I could feel it. Just then, I saw Mother remove her wedding ring & give it back to the man who had placed it on her finger.

I’d never been startled into consciousness with the shrill ringing of an alarm, but rather, gentled into wakefulness to Mother’s dulcet tones.

We washed away the grime of sleep, our hair drying in the summer air on our way to the cemetery, leaving us smelling like a spring rain.

The fragrance of the roses, mingling with the honeysuckle, made me think of an old dowager entertaining little children with sticky faces.

Only God, & perhaps the dead who had been perfected in Him, could hear our thoughts. It was why Jesus had said to go into thy closet to pray.

As Scarlett O’Hara’s home was in the South, I felt mine was somewhere up in New England, where there were four seasons, rather than two.

#Fiction Friday: #Novelines from the Book


As I was an outsider in our town, so was Caitlin in our family. A single bloodline was all that tethered her to us.

I was the white chocolate shell of my mother, my sister Caitlin, the creamy center.

My sister, the only one who ever really knew me, stays away, and sometimes I believe it is because she knew me.

My sister twinkled like the little star she was, my daughter dancing in her light– a moonlight sonata.

I saw loving my daughter as atonement for not loving my sister when she needed me. I’d left God out of the equation.

Like Scarlett O’Hara, I had a child’s understanding, for I thought that saying “I’m sorry” would make it all go away.

Sometimes, a memory is the only way I can have someone back for a moment; a dream, for hours.

My sister prayed to our dead father, even as she prayed to the Saints, or idols, as our stepfather called them.

She clung to her father, whose memory was like dandelion seeds blowing in the wind.

The fragrance of peach blossoms floats through the French doors, like the spirit of one who died at the height of her loveliness.

#Micropoetry Monday: Our Beautiful South


The geometric sharpness
above the Mason-Dixon line,
softened like charcoal, dreamlike,
as I delved into the Deep South—
a peach going back to pit.

Her husband was a man
of the camo cloth.
Faith was her name,
but Hope was the daughter
she’d given birth to
when she got saved by Grace.

Magnolia blooms are virginal Southern belles-
a pearlescent setting in a ring of fine patina,
like Scarlett O’Hara’s dress with tasseled lapels.

Utah had opened her eyes,
but back in the South,
eyes closed,
she dusted off her old testimony.
Twas like coming home
after a long time away.

Miss Ruby Lee was
a dyed-in-the-seersucker,
red State lady,
serving fried chicken,
hominy grits,
& nanner puddin’–
all on Wedgwood blue.