MATRIARCH
ninth great-grandchild
spits up peas
seventh and fourth
declare themselves winners
I bundle the children into categories
high-shouldered daughters gobble minutes
trikes in the hallway
my sidewinding wisdom
laughs into a hanky
why is it I depend on the perpetual
tweed skirt
try reading
a mother
nursing triplets
attagirl
I suppose getting it right doesn’t matter
pull the flowers from the earth
an isolated pea is a tiny thing
JOSEPHINE MARCUS EARP
cowboys were the bad guys
one cow hides behind the last one
it was a bad sum
inaccuracies plus chickens
instead traded on horse hooves
kicked up dust and stray dogs
she wanted to be
taken seriously
staked instead a vagabond
her husband’s posture straight to the sky
pointing now to the headboard
the tombstone didn’t think of her
left with her own version
they rifle through the undergarment drawer
for the sheriff’s girl
MARCHING: SOPHIA DULEEP SINGH
voice rattles
a high window
the lyric ricochets
then straightens
to the upper register
breath comes
from the diaphragm
for the belters
on occasion
the belly
trailing skirts out of fashion
wives sing wild
wrapped in bedsheets
to jump from a crawling baby
is not a dance
talk of a women’s parliament
words are for lemmings
feet do the work
until the pointlessness is stiff limbed
dogged bobbys
the street scuffle an avant-garde
ballet
she fell down during the struggle
mud on her dress
