Mine

My girl, he called her
and her heart flipped
her brain bubbled.
This is my girl, he said
when he introduced her
to his friends.
She preened  with pride.
But forty years later
her heart righted
the bubbles burst
she resisted the title.
As if she had no other name
no other identity.
Reluctantly
with a usual dash of anger
he gave it up.
Until a final day
when he whispered
You will always be my girl.
Sparked by love or revenge...
she had years to consider
the weight of  words.

Bridget Harwell

Oddity

Whenever I see
a wayward shoe
sitting on the sidewalk
or lying in the road
I wonder.
Surely the day began with two.
One shoe bespeaks misfortune.
An accident, a sore toe...
not a clue to tell the story
Only the one
shoe.
The comfort
the companionshiop
the perfect pairing
undone.

Bridget Harwell

                 Maria's Day

His ninety-three year old hand
cannot extract
a scratchy something inside his shirt.
Busy arguing, his daughers are oblivious.
They have been fighting for sixty years.
No matter.
They keep him clean, fed and medicated
in a routine tight as a girdle.
He strives not to be a burden
is appreciative and apologetic
except on Fridays
when the daughters turn him over to Maria.
And today is Friday.

She enters smiling.
"Mr. Moore, how are today?"
she says as if excited to see him.
She kisses him on the cheek
and her misty, curly hair brushes over him
as if his face were a valued antique.
Always, they begin their time together with the weekly news
he, his health, his spirits, his impatient daughters
she, her lopsided love life.
She has a boyfriend they call Fungus because he comes and goes
and she cannot rid herself of him because she loves him.
She likes to scold.  "You did not eat your lunch.
Why didn't you comb your hair for me?
There is jam on your handsome face."
While she feeds him, bathes him, dresses him
she hums or sings and sometimes, if he asks, shows him salsa steps.
On Maria nights, he sleeps well, safe as a bundled baby.
She sits beside him on the bed and togethr they laugh and say, "Cuddle tiime."
It's ridculous, he knows, doesn't care.
His head against her shoulder, she holds his hand, speaks lulling Spanish words.
A clever, coprprate man with years of power and positon
he wonders if he is sliding into senility
has heard his daughers' whispers.
What they don't know
what he only recently knows
is
he feels loved.

Bridget Harwell