From: joedees@bellsouth.net
Date: Sun Feb 17 2002 - 21:52:02 MST
On 15 Feb 2002 at 12:16, athe nonrex wrote:
> "judas' children"
> (c) nick mastro (my real name) 4-11-2000
>
> -I-
> shallow reverberation,
> content in my swolen heart
> the pain of my soul.
> so hard to keep up with the pain;
> so hard to cange who i wanna be...
> so i don't.
>
>
> -II-
> a pang of life
> beats me in my stomach...
> <the statue of mirrors
> shows you the depths of your soul.>
> and when i look inside of me,
> i see a little boy
> sitting on my shoulders,
> waiting for me to die-
> not morbidly,
> just to take my place.
>
> i want to let him...
>
>
>
> (okay, i know there's no rhyme or meter to it, but there it is...)
>
For Minnie Lee
By Joe Dees
The registered letter came wednesday.
Dad was off having the car fixed. We called the garage.
"Open it and read it to me", he said.
It was Minnie Lee.
We drove over Thursday.
Her niece met us at the rest home.
"She's been this way a week now;
I couldn't find your number." We went in.
My grandmother was tied down on the bed, moaning, trying to rise.
Her hair was a thin pale halo wafting around her head,
Her skin a sheet of warm wax sunken into it,
Dark holes for eyes. Maamamaamamaama she moaned.
Mother patted her hands. She didn't notice.
The mass in her stomach had grown more rapidly
The past few months, we were told.
There was never talk of surgery. She was ninety-three.
There were no tubes, no machines. No Heroic measures.
"We're giving her what we can for the pain,
Every three hours." It was not often enough.
She would sleep two hours, then suffer one.
When my turn at the bedside came, I held those frail fingers
between my palms, and tride to get through to her,
And to thank her, by talking of childhood memories.
"Meemaw, it's me. Do you remember how I used to climb
All over the old magnolia tree? How we'd sit out
Underneath the porch of that big pillared white antebellum home?
And then you'd lead us across the street to the general store
You and Granddad owned, and five us candy for free."
She squeezed my hand - so hard! - seemed to look at me
And called my long dead grandfather's name.
"Hold me!", she pled. My father, his face crumpling
Stumbled out of the room. Releasing my hand
Minnie Lee began calling for her mama again;
A desperate child begging for deliverance
>From a pain that could neither be stood nor fled.
I left to see to my father. He was in the hall
head bowed and shoulders slumped, leaning against the wall.
"Promise me son youi'll never let it go this far
With me", he begged. My father is emphysemic
from thirty years of Winstons, undergoes daily lung therapy
And must sleep on oxygen.
My mother and I got him out of there.
There was nothing more we could do for my grandmother
But pray for her to die. And she did, next day.
The graveside service was Sunday.
We drove over in the rain.
The full gospel minister made use of the opportunity
To proselytize. He had not witnessed her passing.
I bit my lip and held my tongue, but I
So wanted to tell him
That funerals are for the living, not the dead
And for the mourners, not the preachers.
And that it was unjust beyond redemption for my Minnie Lee
To be forced to pass through the gates of Hell
To enter Heaven.
>
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