Published Poems "A Meal of Manners" and "Let Your Horses Run Away"

A Meal of Manners  rosemaryfrances,org

At the end of my marriage, four

children stood in a wreath,

a canopy drawn over a grave,

the hills rolling a green shell.

The afternoon shadows climbed

the latticework with fair decision,

and I trudged in holocaust

and tumbleweeds on the ground.

A shallow grave exposes

the blight, the wind of wax

and candle glow in a meal

and manners spread for all.

A scarf hangs loosely on the line,

once stiff with errant grief,

it spiders from the folds,

gloves worn linen white.

In one turn of the clock, the hands

part in the way a key

catches in the lock, and a house

trims Christmas inside.

I sleep beneath the shallows

where memory ripples-

where daffodils rise in stands,

and early balsam bursts.

Let Your Horses Run Away 

Sunday mornings, my mother 
clattered in the kitchen, the scent 
of blueberry pancakes and sausages 
bubbling the stairs and I played 
“button-button” with my father 
in a tent pitched with bedcovers. 
Buttons not on shirts or sweaters 
but my chest, belly, and legs. 

My father would say it’s smaller 
than a Buffalo nickel and I would guess 
at it. The Sunday before Easter 
he slipped one inside another, 
and the room grew dark

like the sacks of grain slumped 
behind the barn when I had gone  
to the farm for raw milk and eggs. 

I heard my mother calling, 
so I turned with the foal in my arms 
and spread her on the dirt and hay. 
She whinnied and I stroked her back, 
her wobbly legs. I don’t know 
how long we lay in the dark
her eyes closed to the glow 

of lamplight, the sun piercing her
and me, listening to the hardwood 
down the hall propped-up 
and dog-eared. Perhaps 

pom-pom-pull-away

smuggles discarded 
ice skates, horses, giggles. I’ve forgotten.