Fairview Gothic
3:44pm Sep 8, 2003

Damp leaves, orange vermillion-green veined,
lay atop the stones at Fairview; the monuments simmer,
heave, then settle in the autumn sun
and warm the necropolisof angels.
I let your hand find mine
and cradle it on our bench, gently.

Oh Snuze,this us too;
some cold exhalation-exhausted bones
taking their time to rot?
Unlike you,I do not wish that
we had started sooner
on the path,or rail at things
beyond our reach,or fuss
because the parting hour will come
like a thief in the night.

But in my bowels an ache begins
this time of year when squash comes in,
And days go down to hours small;
the cemetery says it all.

And I may go without so much as'Thank You.
Snuze', and leave you.
This stone bench, the solemn place we adore,
the gentle drift of wayward leaves,
carpeting Fairview's floor,
shoves me toward the coming task.

Will you lie down among these stones
when we are done side by side with me;
bring our stuff, unpack our lunch-promise
not to waste the next life wandering?

Snuggle with my arm around you-tell me
if I've gone amiss, or if I have,
tell me that you loved me ever?

© 2002 Lannie Baylor. All rights reserved.



Under Alabaster Wings

Catfish Snuzie - 6:41pm Aug 28, 2003 EDT

You're not leaving without me.
All our belongings, take to Saint Vinny's.
We'll lie together side by side.
Under the angel's alabaster wings.

Just don't fart, and make silly sounding sighs.
(the way you do when you're being cute)
I'll try not to nag about our new bed.
Lets make sure we have plenty to eat and drink.

Lets wrap ourselves up in the old quilt,
the one that saved you from scarlet death.
You know how cold the air gets, how damp and wet
the ground is, there under the large oak tree?

You can tell me anything but good-bye.

Press yourself against me,
and in the caress of nightshade
dream sweetly
into the next life.

While we say farewell to long,
sultry summers and golden colors
that turn gray in winter,
with your lips say anything-but don't ever leave without me.

Quiet Goodnight

Wake me, if you can,when my breath
is short and my chest heaves,
I maybe wandering in limbo
outside of purgatory.

When the Black Sentinel,
the Death Monger,taps his reaping hook,
counting down the days
and hours to the seconds ,then takes
me while you sleep
unaware.

I will awaken you one last time,
without a rattle or a wheeze
to say:I understand the twist and turns
life has given you,its a part of our journey here,
there is nothing after.

I have no lessons or advice to offer,

Only to kiss you into this quiet goodnight.

© Catfish Snuzie

On My Way Home


She glides an iron down the length
of a white cotton table cloth.
Sweat rolls from her forehead,down her temples,
in patterns from sprays of starch and lifted dust
that comes through the back door
on a summer evening breeze.

She moves with measured grace,
like a dancer on the stage-a skill passed
from mother to daughter,
in the lessons of linens and bluing.

The fallen sign
laid against the building
says: Figlio Italia,
reflecting red,orange,purple and gray, in the setting sun.
Whitewashed bricks, arched around the windows and doorways
are cast in neon lights,when the bar is open at dusk.

I pass by and there she sits, eyeglasses low on the bridge of her nose,
hunched over the small threads on an apron.
You can barely see her, past the racks of hanging tablecloths
and waiter's uniforms, clean and neatly pressed.
In a little space between her and the small doorway,
an empty old tomato cansits rusting since 1942.

Her hair, white as Tuscany marble,
styled after a fashion,
frames her rounded face,
just as she wore it
the night he left on the train for Calabria.

She still waits, she doesn't remember that
the man from the War Department
came to this back door sixty years ago,
with his hat in his hand,
and eyes cast down,
came to tell herthat her beloved was dead.

Her eyes show sorrow, even as she smiles and waves
at my passing,
and for a brief moment,
an apparition of youth
in her gracefully aging face appears.

As I turn the corner,her image evaporates,
others come in view on my way home.

© Catfish Snuzie

Woman

Woman,
wrapped in your beauty,
your duty, the toss of your hair,
the twinkle in your eyes,
your lips stained rosy, waxed.
there is nothing you lack.

So fair your are, no heart thats pure,
but pure of sprit,
until the light of youth
departs from the face
that once turned men 's heads-
now dry and chaffed
In your grace, full bodied,
the mirror of life,
Your stitches saved nine.

© Catfish Snuzie