Tara Brever

This End Up

Besa came in a box
that was more coffin
than crate;
it had been crafted
by her parents–
every year for seventeen
they added a new slat
to match her growth. It was lined
with seaweed from the old
shoreline and grapes
from the churchyard fence.
It was covered in a language
that she could not speak
so the ship would know
where to sail her.

Besa arrived special delivery–
both mailmen were needed
to carry her because
she couldn't cram
into the bag.
Her veil was already
fastened, her legs
already unclasped
by the time she reached
Sonny's door.
There was a fuss
in town that day; everyone
gathered at the family
restaurant to touch
Sonny's shipment.

Besa was a beautiful doll,
but her mother hadn't told
her about make-up,
and she hid her olive-
leaf eyes behind black-
stamped lashes.
She hid her body behind
the cash counter,
where she belonged,
she practiced a woman's
smile in the ladies bathroom
on break, she studied lipstick
on the mouths
of the coffee please
high-school girls.

Besa couldn't help
but scream
most of the time–
when Sonny
would lay his head
in the creases
of her body,
his remaining hairs
waving like underwater
fronds–so she'd imagine
a prune-faced baby
with a voice even smaller
than hers; she'd picture
packing her own screams
into that little voice.

'54

Well, it was the year
we met
and it was spring
and the grass still
hadn't given up
and he was just as green.

It was too hot for the army
blanket; he was stationed
here today, weekend
off, somewhere behind the trees,
but Wisconsin was still
behind his eyes.

Well, we roller skated
on the first date, and he held
my hand that many minutes–
until our mouths
were ovens, our tongues
stiff dry bread.

It didn't matter that we'd only
just met; my sister Ruth
had heard his approach,
had read it in the dust.
She knew things–she felt it, later,
when Daddy's light went out.

Well, we decided on a picnic;
I wore jeans to match my name,
I wore a stain around my eyes, a strain
at my waist; I wore a cold circle
of gold that bound my every limb,
would bear me North.

It was a good day for this sort
of thing; it is happy when the weather
just shuts its eyes and grins,
just laughs and plugs its ears,
just fills the lungs of lost people
with a day pass to heaven.

Well, it was the day
we married
and it was spring
and the grass was tired
of breathing dead sky
and he was just as scared.

I'm Tara Gilbert-Brever, a 25 yr. old living in Wisconsin. I graduated last year with a BA in English from UW-Parkside. In my spare time I am Assistant Poetry Editor for the ezine, Eclectica, where I have also been published. My other publications include: Stirring, Wicked Alice, Primavera, and Poems Niederngasse. email: T.Brever

05-02/05-03/