TWO POEMS BY ROSEMARY ROYSTON - POET OF THE MONTH FOR NOVEMBER 2010

Rosemary Royston is the POET OF THE MONTH OF NOVEMBER here Above the Frost Line.  She  lives in the north Georgia Mountains.  Her poem-- Igneous or "Of Fire" won the 2010 Literal Latte Food Verse Contest. Rosemary Royston holds an MFA in Writing from Spalding University, has taught creative writing at Institute of Continuing Learning, at the Writers Circle and will teach Writing in 2011 at Young Harris College and John C. Campbell Folk School.

Strange Garden

The devil manifests himself

through a bright red, fiery itch that spreads

from my palms to my feet.

I rip off my cashmere socks and scratch,

sowing row after row of raised skin.

My son hovers.  His mouth moves

but I cannot hear his questions due

to the buzzing deep inside my ears.

Bees are pollinating my brain, I think

and I resist the absurd urge

to slap my son’s soft cheeks

for no reason other than he cannot understand

the unrelenting itch, the shock

of the sudden bloat and sag of my face.

My stiff chin and wooden tongue prohibit

me from speaking.

What strange garden is this?

I fill the bathtub with warm water

rake the loofah over my itchy flesh,

and watch as red blisters appear on my thighs. 

When I swallow, my throat is tight

as if a chicken bone is stuck deep within.

It is then that I realize it was not the apple,

but the strawberry,

that brought the world down.

By Rosemary Royston

The Possibility of Snow

Ms. Callie is like a perfumed sparrow,

tiny and fragile in dress slacks,

the seam straight and pressed,

her sweater a matching shade of green.

When I hug her hello I’m afraid she will topple

under the weight of my slender arms.

At 80 her hair is coiffed and teased

and she’s just short of five feet,

only a head taller than my son, Luke.

We are visiting Angie, her daughter, (my friend)

and after talking and laughing over Oolong tea

we realize that my 7-year old has vanished—

he’s not in the guest room with the TV,

nor is he chasing the many cats around the house.

His drawing pad lies abandoned on the floor.

In the distance we hear a soft song of sorts

and are drawn to it, only to find him

on Ms. Callie’s bed, stretched out,

his head propped against the footboard,

conversing with her on the possibility of snow.

by Rosemary Royston

Previously published in 

Echoes Across the Blue Ridge