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

My Gentleman

Despite blasting horns
and the roar of motors
I choose not to run down
the old man crossing
ever so slowly
in front of me.
Over-sized pants
worn jacket
shoes without laces.
But an arresting face
of sharp bones and narrow eyes.
Unfazed by the crazies
he holds his pace
until he reaches the curb
where, in slow motion
he turns and doffs his cap to me.
This graceful gesture from a diffeent time
lifts my spirit
removes me from the rabble of the street

Bridget Harwell

Away

I've lived too long
with velvet lawns
tidy trees
citizens.
I want to walk
in a wild wood
crunch winter leaves
see spring,
untended
by human hands,
peek out
from crevices
splash
purple patches
coo
baby greens.

Bridget Harwell

On Her Way

"Martha Stone.
That's a strong name
for a little-bitty thing like you."
The stout woman checked the card
pinned on her gown.
"You need something sweet, like Daisy.
All my ladies are flowers.
Rose and Bluebell
Dandelion
and now we have a Daisy."
A spark within flickered
but only for a moment.
Losing her name was the least of her losses.
A shy woman
she minded more having to be bathed
...as if such things still mattered.

The flower woman hummed
as she helped her off with her gown
and into the tub.
She had forgotten the feel of strong hands
lifting an arm
caressing her face
the taste of soap upon her lips.
Water cascaded over her head
rippled down her shoulders
dripped from her fingertips.
As if she were a child of God
named Daisy
and this a second baptism
readying her for the place of peace

Bridget Harwell

Small Comfort

She cracked the soft boiled egg
and scooped it out, the yoke intact.
This daily feat was accomplised
using a thin, sharp-edged spoon
with a decorative handle.
It never failed
even when her hands shook.
Once it went missing for three days
before she found it peeking out from under the stove.
She was never so happy to find anything
not even her glasses.
Small, pretty, useful, not unlike herself
when she bought it at a church sale fifty years ago.
It hd been her breakfast companion every since.
As her life went away bit by bit
she was aware of clinging to such familiar things.

Her neighbor, a kindly man
kept an eye out for her
noticed when she did not visit her garden
though the days were sunny.
He found her in bed.
It looked like a peaceful death, he told his wife
if a bit peculiar
what wtith that fancy, silver spoon folded in her hands.
But, he supposed
oddities were to be expected with the elderly.

"Did you bring the spoon Home?"
his wife asked.

Bridget Harwell

What Is This Thing Called Love?

The Smitheys
a proper couple
grown round together
often spoke for each other.
Or, conversely
lips pressed, hands folded
Mrs. Smithey
would make a display
of generous silence.
They were well liked.
She for an encompassing smile
he for market tips and jokes.
Happiest apart
they rarely parted.
Until one evening
while telling one of her stories
he choked on a fig and died.
Surprised and angry
she was overwhelmed.
The unfairness of it.
After years of practicing their routine
she was made to start over.
Without him
her smile had no direction
her lips no story to tell
her nerves
no place to land.

Bridget Harwell