EXORDIUM

she wore 
her hair 
in one long braid, 
wound around 
the top of her head 
until it became 
an alabaster pillbox – 
prim standard 
of her unwavering 
propriety. 


she was neither 
oblivious to 
its effect 
upon her pupils 
nor deterred by 
our unruly gibes – 
in the end, 
the pillbox prevailed 
(so it continued 
through april -- 
we flouted 
every primer, 
learning nothing). 


six a.m. 
one bright may morning, 
early to school, 
i padded mischievously 
down the asbestos corridor 
to peer in
at her classroom door; 
puckish surprise 
my puerile aim. 


inside, 
she sat – 
a septuagenarian sylph 
serenely brushing 
six feet of 
undulating alban 
gossamer. 


i remember 
weightlessness, 
reverie, 
light 
and music; 
nothing in 
nine years 
on earth 
had prepared me 
for such 
ineffable 
radiance. 


i stood 
transfixed; 
one glorious moment 
in Dian’s presence 
before backing away 
with shame 
hissing 
in every cilia. 


later, 
her immaculate cataract 
restored to 
pristine cylindrical obeisance, 
she expounded upon 
the virtues of cursive 
and made perfect 
chalk spirals 
to inspire 
fit chirography. 


having seen her, 
i scribbled stupidly 
and dreamed of 
wings ...



About Rich Follett:
Rich Follett has recently returned to writing poetry after a thirty-year hiatus. He lives in the sacred and timeless Shenandoah Valley of Virginia, where he joyfully teaches English and Theatre Arts for high school students. His poems have appeared in BlazeVox, Exercise Bowler, Calliope Nerve, Leaf Garden, Four Branches Press and Counterexample Poetics, for which he is a Featured Artist. He is the co-author of Responsorials (with Constance Stadler) and the solo collection Silence, Inhabited for NeoPoiesis Press, which will publish his second solo collection, Human &c. late in 2012.

ALUM, LIME, AND TIME

two pickles

in a mason jar --

Shenandoah dill,

grass-green and crisp;

wrinkled viridian jewels

inveigling

clear through

the closed door

of the refrigerator.

　

no side dishes, these;

rather, transcendent

bonnes bouches of brine --

each a petite paean

to halcyon summer.

　

one week ago,

the jar was full --

gift from a friend’s kitchen;

the work of her loving hands.

　

in the time since,

my wife and i

(with childish grins

and dripping chins)

have savored each one so fully

as to have numbered and named them

with our delight;

thanks-praying for these benisons

(as dear to us as fleeting youth) and

repenting our reckless pickle lust

even as we reached

with giggling, guilty fingers

for another …

　

one week ago,

the jar was full;

one week ago

the vibrant,

extraordinary young woman who

blessed us with

sunshine from a crock

was at our door --

today,

news of her passing.

　

incomprehensible, really,

that two pickles

in a mason jar

could be

all that remains --

the only tangible remnant

of her sweetness

in our life;

it is

so inexpressibly cruel

for the line between

here and gone

to be so fine,

the parting

so sudden.

　

here in our kitchen,

i stand in my bathrobe

feeling a chill

clear through

the closed door

of the refrigerator.

　

one week ago,

i would not have believed:

tonight

i open the refrigerator door

just to stare at

two pickles

in a mason jar

(two perfect, beryl lobes);

open the door,

hold my breath

and pray --

hoping against hope

that i will see them begin

to beat.

 

About Rich Follett:

Rich Follett has recently returned to writing poetry after a thirty-year hiatus. He lives in the sacred and timeless Shenandoah Valley of Virginia, where he joyfully teaches English and Theatre Arts for high school students. His poems have appeared in Paraphilia, Exercise Bowler, Calliope Nerve, Sugar Mule, Four Branches Press and Counterexample Poetics, for which he is a Featured Artist. He is the co-author of Responsorials (with Constance Stadler) and the solo collection Silence, Inhabited for NeoPoiesis Press.