Page 23

The Country Girl’s Poem

S he sat in the passenger’s seat of his truck smelling like vanilla and the last days of an Indian summer.

The truck tires rolled clumsily over the dips and sunken holes of the cool earth, pulling them in and spitting them out.

The sounds of Blackgrass Gospel’s ‘Longneck Bible’ filled the truck with rapid-fire, downhome fiddles and guitars.

He didn’t miss the amused smirk on Poet’s face as the lyrics of the song had her tap her foot to the beat.

After his work on her greenhouse was complete for the day, he’d freshened up in her first floor bathroom.

He always kept extra clothing in his truck, such as the jeans and caramel ribbed long-sleeved shirt he had on.

Poet graciously offered a washcloth and new bar of soap for him to take care of his hygiene needs before they departed for dinner.

“How’d you get the name Poet?”

She reached into her purse, removed her phone, glanced at it, then slid it back inside.

“My mama liked poetry.”

“Mmmm, well, I ’spose that makes sense. Did she write any herself?”

“Not that I know of. Accordin’ to my grandmother, who died when I was ten or eleven, she just liked readin’ it and going to Spoken Word club events. Things like that.”

“Do you like poetry?”

Poet nodded. “Yeah. I write a little of it. I’m not any good though. I guess I got that from my mama, too.”

“Let me hear somethin’ you wrote.” He leaned forward and turned the music off. The sun was setting, and ribbons made of orange and red clouds stretched across the sky—a beautiful display of a day gone by.

“I don’t want to.”

“Why not?”

“It probably sounds silly. Silly words, on silly paper. Transcribed to memory.” She seemed to have no idea how silky and pretty her voice sounded.

Poet had a voice that sounded like music, even though she wasn’t singing.

She enunciated her words in such a way that made you pay attention.

It was like ASMR, but with vowels and consonants.

“Try me. I’ll be honest and tell you if it sucks. Fetch you the truth, and put it in a bucket.”

She chuckled at that as she reached for her necklace and played with it, running the purple pendant between her thumb and forefinger as she looked out the window. It matched the silky purple shirt and mid-length skirt she was wearing.

“How can you tell me if it sucks if you don’t know what good poetry is?”

“Well hell. I know what sounds good. Like a song… What sounds sincere. You ain’t got to be no expert in all things to understand quality.

We can go to a five star restaurant and appreciate the entrees, or realize after a few bites that they’re overrated, made with cheap, canned ingredients.

It doesn’t require us goin’ to cookin’ school first, now does it? ”

“I guess I can’t argue with that… I want to correct you on something you said today though.”

“What’s that?” He shot her a quick glance as she continued looking out that window, almost as though she was expecting someone to show up in the blur of trees.

“You said you weren’t my type, and I told you it wasn’t that simple. You are actually my type. That’s the problem.”

He wrestled with those words for a moment or two. Pinned them down. Gave them a good hammering.

“Let me hear that poem of yours. Tell me any one of ’em that you want. Your choice.”

“I haven’t written in a long time. Busy with work ’nd such.” She exhaled loudly, then faced him. Her eyes were big pools of liquid black love, her lashes the diving boards, and all he wanted to do was take a long, deep swim. Drown in all those verses, stanzas, rhymes and reason.

“I’m ready. And uh one! Uh two!”

She laughed, then nodded. “Okay, I’ll do it.” She cleared her throat. “This one is called, ‘The Orphan Country Girl’ …

The top of a riot sits inside of me…

A calm before a rolling storm.

I try to make sense of all the noise.

What’s chaos for me, is the world’s norm.

I rarely feel sorry for myself

But many say that I should.

Sometimes I scare myself

With how I pretend to be kind ’nd good.

Blood on my hands is relief

Pulling out the organs: pink, white and red.

I want to punch my life in the face,

But I’m better off playing with the woolly dead.

See, the dead don’t judge you.

They just lie back and stay awhile.

And when I get ’em all pretty for display,

Their eyes are alive, and their lips curl in plastered smiles.

Don’t much make me sick.

Don’t much make me mad.

Except for the mama I lost.

And the daddy I never had…

Sometimes the pain of the past is great.

It stabs my heart like a knife.

So, I pretend to be God

And bring the dead back to life.

Just so somethin’ll love me.

With a needle and thread, I mend.

Dead rabbits hop, departed coyotes hunt,

Once again… even if it’s only pretend.

They’ll get to live forever.

Eternity in this world.

But what do I know?

I’m just an orphan country girl…”

She turned from the window and eyed him, still pulling at that necklace.

He reached for her hand, but she pulled away. Slowly. A hesitation of the flesh. A slowing of the mind.

“Give it here.” He reached for her again and this time, she obliged.

He squeezed her hand tight, pressed his fingers against hers.

It felt like their flesh was melding. A heated embrace of palms and fingertips.

He was reading her lifeline through a handheld clasp.

She felt familiar, and yet, he barely knew her. “I liked your poem. It was real good.”

“…Thanks.” She sniffed and turned away, but kept her grip on his fingers. Squeezing back.

“Why’d you choose that particular one to share with me?”

“I have no idea why.”

“Maybe ’cause you wanted me to know, but instead of tellin’ me how you felt directly, it was safer to say it with words that rhymed.”

She looked straight out the front window, turning off whatever was happening.

Disconnecting like an old phone line. A faraway look of misery crept across her face.

Then, it vanished, replaced by a blank canvas.

He wanted to paint sunshine and love all over that vacant piece of art.

She was words on a page that couldn’t be read.

He turned the music back on, keeping it on low volume—‘Pardon Me, I’ve Got Someone to Kill,’ by Johnny Paycheck.

“Kage, I found you alarmin’, brash and rude, but I have a confession.

” She kept her gaze straight ahead. “From the moment I was waiting for that tow truck at your house, I’ve found you easy and at times, even fun to talk to.

I looked forward to your calls, even though you didn’t get flirty until a bit later…

and then, the flirtations made me smile, but I didn’t want you to know it.

You saw through all of that. Normally, I’d be upset that you didn’t accept my rebuffs, but I know that I was lukewarm.

Lackluster. Lyin’ through my teeth. You just saw through my duplicity, even the times I was lyin’ to myself.

” She turned back to him, black rainbows in her eyes.

“With all of your rough edges, your soul is smooth. It shines like new gold and polished diamonds. Easy to hold and cradle.”

“I ’preciate your confessions.”

“Can I ask you somethin’?”

“I reckon.” He eased onto the highway. “What’s up?”

“How’d you get the name Kage?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” He grinned. “It’s silly, like you thought your poem was.”

“I wanna hear it. I hope it is a funny story, actually, after I brought the mood down with my trauma, and baggage and shit.”

They had a chuckle at that.

“I want all of your trauma and baggage, ’cause I’m gonna help you unpack it and put it away. Bury it like the dead.”

“Hmm, I bet you have your own to take care of. Can’t be too busy dealin’ with mine. Besides, I never took you as no shrink, or undertaker.” She shrugged.

“Oh yeah, you didn’t know? I’ve got a degree in mental health.”

“Can’t say that I did.”

“Well, let me tell you, they call me Dr. Wilde! Fuckin’ up trauma, sorrows and the blues! I’m at your service!” All they could do was snicker together now, the mood real warm, easy and sweet. “It was a typo.”

“What was a typo?”

“My name. My father’s name was Kane. I was ’spose to be Kane, Jr. Whoever typed it up in the hospital on the birth certificate right after I was born accidentally typed, ‘ Kage .’ My mama and daddy saw it and laughed, but decided they liked it, so they left it alone.”

“That is funny.” She adjusted herself in the seat, a big smile on her face. “I like Kage… it’s different, just enough so it doesn’t cause confusion. If that makes sense.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean.”

“You look like your name would be Kage. Kane doesn’t suit you quite as nice. You told me the other day that your father is dead, too.”

“Mmm hmmm.”

“How’d your daddy die?” He realized at that moment, as they sat side by side in his favorite truck, that they had something else in common.

Neither reacted the way society deemed appropriate when discussions of death came around.

They seemed not bothered in the least, and in fact, embraced and welcomed the conversation.

His fascination with such things ran into uncomfortable arenas for most, he’d bet.

Regardless, he was glad she wasn’t shy about asking about this.

Without death, there would be less appreciation for life.

“Somebody murdered him. It’s still an unsolved homicide. Shot him up before I was even six months old.”

“Jesus… I’m sorry.”

He shrugged. “I didn’t know him. That don’t make it okay—just sayin’ that I didn’t get to bond or form a connection, really. I suppose it’s best he was taken then , before I got attached and knew him well.”

“I imagine that’s a healthy way to look at it. Or maybe it’s not healthy. Maybe it’s just a way for you to cope.” She sighed.