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Thomas McAfee, mother, in English Clear filters

SadThomas McAfee

The Day Before My Mother's Funeral

The lawn was cut, but thorny weeds bloomed by The red verbena. We had a sunny sky. The women had forsaken me: sister, Aunts and cousins, hidden back somewhere To weep, to whisper, to see that coffee perked. "Not-there," stranger-at-home, I fairly lurked On our front porch, the rouge-tile freshly mopped. That was Cousin Abram? The one who chopped His finger off, on a bet? "This one who chopped His finger off is Cousin Abram; this is . . ." Ill-dressed in a tight, stained skirt, she said, "Mrs. Crantenwell," blew smoke, "I used to rent From y'Mother. Five years or more. They sent The corpse?" Her ankles were dirty and her legs Could have used a shave. Poor woman was town-dregs.
SadThomas McAfee

In Time of Sickness

Two years ago, counting back from January. . . In Alabama a kind of wintry, wary Spring had begun. Next month camellias would open, In March the jonquils, then anything could happen As far as flowers were concerned. You yearned For them that spring, I know it, Mother, Lying on patched hospital sheets, smothering (Cold, cooped up) in a dinky room, its walls Tranquility-gray. You lay there, a hand-knitted shawl, The color of honey, around your shoulders; It was wintry in Alabama, ever colder As camellias budded and suddently burst. Though icy, this was the warmest of the worst Three winters you knew. Your flowers were worked by the man (He talked to himself; so what?) you used to stand
CheerfulThomas McAfee

At Table . . .

At table, feet must be flat on the floor. Don't cross your legs. If something's spilled, ignore It. Spread your napkin out, first thing, across Your lap. Eat some of all. It's your loss If you don't. Why once I couldn't eat An oyster raw, and now—what a treat! Don't fidget when your uncle says long blessing; He means it all. Besides, he's always stressing You to God. You should be glad you've got So many relatives who care a lot About you. When you've finished eating and Must go, excuse yourself before you stand. This is how a gentleman should act. It's manners now but later will be tact. So spoke my Mother, many and many a time, These words, adultly, only not with rhyme,
ContemplativeThomas McAfee

The Border

My mother's border grew on a clean dirt mound; No weeds undid its pure formality. Some years dark blood verbena laced and wound Among itself, but never wild, never free. Whatever flower stood on guard, it found A raging land of colors there, a sea Of grass the other way. Boys turned around, They might expect some instant laxity On the border's part: purple asters now unbound, White rose petals shattering mutinously. And boys might never know a woman's hands Work always early mornings, pulling weeds. The woman, with wet shears, who understands What ruthless care the clean and formal needs.
SadThomas McAfee

Greatness Tends to Slink

Greatness tends to slink In times of stress, And men grow cold Within the moment waited for. The hour of dawn is always less Than what it seemed to be before. Children see Heroic fathers pale, And mothers sometimes leave Their babes to burn. The mind is stern till blinded by its tears. The eyeless heart cannot endure its years.

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