the rain-sopped road,
arrived in Van Lear at a blind woman’s welcome.
She offered chow-chow relish on her porch, mixed
well with a meal of potatoes with biscuit gravy.
Silent. Then her arm snapped
out to touch, so sudden
I could hear the folds of her sleeve crisping
in the stillness.
She studied me.
It’s chilly with the skin off your bones.
Blind woman called me “brother-brother,” trembling,
pulling back,
then a lie about my clothes. Her uncle “back in Portsmouth
could make better rags than these.” Her lame hand shaking
as loose tobacco, handled by a drunk smoker, fumble-
fingering the roll of some Golden Virginia, her shoulders sobbed.
I asked why she cried. She was smiling.
“When I wake up in the morning, come
out to feel the sun, I see
no rainbows in the rain, & live with it everyday.
I only feel the storm—everyone dead, or moved away.”
--
Manny Grimaldi is a Kentucky writer and editor. He is editor at Yearling Poetry Journal, in Lexington, Kentucky. He authored a self-published poetry collection, Riding Shotgun with the Mothman, and a chapbook, Ex Libris Ioannes Cerva (by anonymus scriptus). Manny looks toward a nearing book release with Whiskey City Press. He can be reached at http://mannygrimaldi.mypixieset.com.
Manny Grimaldi is a Kentucky writer and editor. He is editor at Yearling Poetry Journal, in Lexington, Kentucky. He authored a self-published poetry collection, Riding Shotgun with the Mothman, and a chapbook, Ex Libris Ioannes Cerva (by anonymus scriptus). Manny looks toward a nearing book release with Whiskey City Press. He can be reached at http://mannygrimaldi.mypixieset.com.