Costel Iarca © 2008 All Rights Reserved
Television's "Mister Rogers" died February 27, 2003. On the last show,
Rogers… traded his loafers for a pair of comfy blue sneakers. —CNN.com
Hipbones loose in their sockets, pink
Bandana leached gray by the dark,
There’s a black dog running
Back and forth along this road.
The mountain gets to its feet and goes walking,
Trees bobbing. That we are not shaken
Off is amazing, rising in our sleep
To find the world bouncing away
Down a long corridor. A bare branch
Hangs like wire over the two yellow dog violets
Clinging to the bank. In the dark a rush, a roar.
Hard to tell the river from the rain.
Fred Rogers dies at seventy-two.
Lets go. Running loose-limbed
Like a dumb old dog, no shoes at all.
The Bearded Lady, Asleep
She rests her pretty curls,
white cotton gloves upon
her hands. She sleeps secure
and does not miss the dawn,
fallen sparrow in God’s palm.
The hairs on her face so
delicate. And the Lord
who created her, who knew
her in her mother’s womb,
cradles her head in time.
Soft the tents are struck, soft
the evening clocks, chiming,
from her pillow singing,
rising from her pillow’s dream.
Open to the evening,
untangling locks and knots
of beard, she is known of God,
chosen Adam, chosen
Eve, knows he makes them
in his mirror, female.
Male he makes them her. His
glory is in her hair. Listen
for her off-key humming.
Anne M. Doe Overstreet lives north of Seattle and works as a freelance editor and private gardener. She is a Soapstone Residency recipient, and her work has appeared previously in DMQ Review, Cranky, Relief, and Talking River Review, among others.
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