And Freddie Was My Darling
UNDERGROUND IN THE BASEMENT
Rubble rubble went the shirts
against the ribbed board, slosh into water,
rubbed again – the enemy grime stalked
through every crease, every congregation of wrinkles.
Rubble down the washboard my grandmother used
in the doghair dust of the basement
while sun slanted through the high window
and suncats danced their reflections in the clothes tub.
In the basement the furnace bellowed
its winter anger, and the room filled with anthracite
shuckled and chinked
as it adjusted its facets and corners.
In time to the rhythm of elbows and strong upper arms,
I danced in slow, thoughtless turns
around the concrete floor – saluting
cartons to the south, coal to the east,
north, with its amber cans of peaches
and red tomatoes hunched in mason jars,
and to the west, my grandmother’s white hair
in a fireball of sun, flared as she worked
without a sound of her own, only the odd
creaking of wooden board and wooden wringer
and the straining groan of the iron handle turning.
And the soft shoe sounds of my feet dancing –
methodical dervish – one hand up to the sky,
one palm down toward earth; and my grandmother
looking at the wringer; me looking at her
ears, eyes, her tight mouth –
and the parts of her hidden by clothes.
Poem by CB Follett from "And Freddie Was My Darling."
WHERE ARE MY MEN?
Where are my men
that should be in photos,
smiling disingenuously,
squinting in strong light?
They should be patting my head,
shadow-jawed, hair tousled,
even a little distant
and awkward.
Where are my men?
There should be grandfathers,
a father,
brothers,
with scratchy chins
and gruff voices,
disapproving voices
followed by easy smiles.
Where is the grandfather
with penny candy in his coat
and a big turnip watch
tucked snug in the pocket
just under his belt
where I could touch bottom
with one finger?
A father
to hand out chores
or give me a quick fond look
before scaring my date?
Never there.
They were never there –
any of them.
And I knew it,
daily from the least bone,
to the beat in my chest,
that they should be,
that they needed to be.
Poem by CB Follett from "And Freddie Was My Darling."