Margaret's Green Man
In summer, the stream slows enough
for the nimble to wade. River rocks
create a path for dragonflies
and damsels to rest.
Chalky blue with crazy neon eyes,
we watch them flit and hover, too
exhausted to mate.
Their eyes are like berries the Green Man
favors. You, who won't believe,
smile when I speak of his visitations.
December, he trails me, inevitably
seduces the part of me
that still believes in demons.
Watching these creatures,
I think of my mother’s mother, Margaret.
It would be simple to say nothing,
to reach for your hand.
"Listen," I say, while they fly in closer
to hear. "Margaret had six children
and seven more pregnancies.
She used coat hangers."
You lift me up, move me into sunlight.
A hummingbird lands
on a doily of Queen Anne's Lace.
"He held a gun under her breast
those nights she didn't want to.
He was a cop."
You shudder, ask me
why I am spoiling our walk, why
the Green Man must have his way.
"It's the dragons" I say,
as they chase each other, flashing red.
"She told us as kids, they could
darn our lips shut if we dared
tell on them.”
My hand covers my mouth.
