Pendulum
The afternoon shone window-stripes across
our den floor. Mama rocked me back and forth.
“Shhh,” she said, “Shut your eyes.” I didn’t mind.
My feet stuck out beyond her knees, and
I tried imagining how I would feel when
my feet could reach the floor, when I was in
a long, grown-up body like hers. I was
completely inside and comfortable in
that size me. Would the me that was me stretch
to fill my body when I grew taller?
Or would I be somewhere in my shoulders,
chest, and head, and the rest be extra to
rock a little three-year-old, like she rocked me--
thought-quieting Mama, measuring time.
Other
The principal walks in
though she never walks in
after school with no
students or lessons to observe.
Sits down. “You know we’re in
the middle of renovations.”
The long and short? She wants
to give my room to another teacher
who is leaving her room for
renovations. It will be easier for
that teacher if I teach ESOL in a lab.
I walk the hallway, pushing my
cart of world literature and workbooks.
It’s an empty, almost straight path,
soft earth gives beneath my feet,
I walk through patches of warmth and
shadows, listen to tree frogs all around
speaking their other languages.
Another Instance
(To Denise Levertov)
Your words, banked in
subconscious ether,
fall like rain on the family van as
we drive to the theater.
The street’s golden puddles slosh
against the undergirth.
Knowing there must be a rainbow, I turn,
see it against that one dark corner
you described, and
my daughter asks why I
always gasp at everything.
Laura Johnson is the author of Not Yet, recently released by Kelsay Books and available on Amazon. Her work has appeared in a range of online and print journals and anthologies, including Rasputin, Literary Mama, Time of Singing, Reach of Song (Georgia Poetry Society, 2018) and The New Southern Fugitives. Laura holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Fairfield University and teaches English/ESOL at Fayette County High School in Georgia.
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