Last Mug

by Brandy Clark

An empty ashtray, often the centerpiece
of the table. A half-pack of cigarettes
and a silver lighter sat adjacent to the Marlboro urn.

Many times, I found myself across from her
at this kitchen table, my hands busied
by something or another, hers occupied

by a cigarette gripped between two yellowed fingers.
The tip glowed red with each breath in
and tobacco perfume accompanied

each breath out as she talked about
baking apple cobblers and lemon meringue pie,
getting up early to cook meals for her family

during the Depression and doing farm chores after,
or about quitting this damn habit for the umpteenth time.
Now, I sit at this same kitchen table

and look toward an empty chair,
then to a sink cluttered with dishes
from her last meal.I needed to rid myself

of those dishes. Remnants of molded baked beans
and the smell of sour milk wafted from the sink.
It made me want to gag.

She won’t need her plates
or the collection of souvenir coffee mugs
hidden behind cabinet doors.

I throw them away as well, one by one.
The stain of generic Folgers
clung to the inside of each handled dome,

a stain no amount of soap could ever cut through
and a thought went through my mind
before the final cup went in the trash,

a random scrolling marquee:  should I keep it? 
But her lips touched its rim,
and I don’t wish to drink after the dead.

Ribbons & Pearls

by Brandy Clark

Whispers, snarls, cussing. Who the hell 
does he think he is? two elderly women spat out
as they passed, not bothering to keep
their voice at the polite levels people often do
when being critical. I slowed in my walk

down the aisle of the store to see a man,
a purse slung over one arm, a purposeful stride
carrying him through the women’s clothing section.
The man wearing red lipstick applied
with the greatest of care, white pearls

clinging to his neck (a decorative rope),
and a towering teased-up bouffant, dried
hairspray clinging to every strand of hair.
The man, now picking through the gaudy
ten-dollar blouses hanging on the racks,

harbored less confidence
than he’d shown moments before.
He cleared his throat, adjusted his purse,
leaned down to tug at the ecru pantyhose
clinging to his calves. I must admit, he had nice legs.

Our town, situated along the notches of the Bible Belt,
did not appreciate difference or those
unwilling to fit into unspoken ideals, expectations
no one could ever reach, or hope to reach.
His ideals meant selecting bright and colorful

outfits, and painting his fingernails a shade
that matched his lipstick. Fingers:  long,
slender, not meant to do a man’s work,
played with the pearls encircling his neck.
He must have felt someone staring, so he looked

in my direction. I nodded, smiled, gave
him a quick hello. He returned the greeting
before turning and walking away, away
from the people who chose to ridicule,
to shame him. He left before I had
the chance to say anything more.

Those pearls were beautiful.
I wanted to tell him that.