The Bispham Dairy Farm
We wandered and settled
on the Bispham Dairy Farm
where the hills disappeared
and the countryside flattened,
a land filled with Palmetto Palms
with sand no seed could sprout.
My father became a hired hand.
He fed their calves and milked their cows
with machines instead of hands.
My mother, in halter top and rubber boots,
washed the crates and cleaned the tank
where they stored their milk.
Except, one day she forgot the plug
and every drop of milk spilled out.
The owner smiled and laughed
and told her she belonged
in a fashion magazine as he watched
my brother and me ride our wooden horses.
The Cuckoo Clock
Our family lived in a cuckoo clock
from then on where a jasmine vine
climbed the trellis of our home
and a dirt road led to woods and brush.
The scent seeped through the air
and veiled an underlying sadness
where I waited for the bird
and watched as she popped out.
The hinge on the wooden door screeched
each season as years of refuge passed
and I became a young woman
with time coiled around my neck.
This metal wire propelled and dragged
me forward until finally my grandfather
found me trapped inside these gears
and cords where at last I heard his voice.
I ran past pines and oaks,
and almost stumbled in disbelief
when I reached for the receiver
and he said, “Mi Pajarito.”
His words crackled over static
as though he were Bell speaking
to Watson on the first phone call
while I stood on a foot stool
and slammed the cuckoo bird
with my father’s sword
then snapped the wire spring
shut with my scream.
The Towering Pine
Disarmed by the beetles
who bore through her trunk
and feasted on her from within,
the pine tree stood hollow.
Her needles turned brown
and dropped to the ground in clumps.
Her limbs became brittle
and her branches began to crumble.
I often walked past her
and saw what would be bruises
were she made of human flesh.
The beetles did not rush,
slow and small, they ate for months
making holes the size of pins.
Unable to move or to escape,
her bark began to show distress,
and all I could do was watch
and admire her resolve to accept
what neither she nor I could change
until she collapsed from the attack.
When once her canopy shaded
half the yard and half the street,
her void now fills the spot
where her confidence used to stand.
Sinking Under Water
When the grayness of the ocean
matches the sky and we file pass each other
by lantern light, miners all,
in this darkness,
open the window and listen to the wind,
step outside and feel the rain,
watch the deer taste the grass by the river
and listen to the water ripple around the pebbles,
go barefoot and dip your toes into the puddles,
sink your feet into the sand and revel in its softness,
grab a clump of petals in both hands
and clasp them tightly
knowing you may feel as though
your fingers were crushed inside a vice.
God knows we need more than fire to exist –
we need light… and love –
Take in the silence and be still,
know sunshine will dance again upon these walls.
Grains of Sand
I should’ve talked to my son
more about acceptance,
shown him the miracle
of geese in formation,
and how horses can feel
the slightest movement of a rider,
how spasms of pleasure
give rise to new life,
and how what we reject
can come back to haunt us,
a trait or a gesture,
a trauma inherited for generations,
a wave rippling on a fingerprint
like a loop of ancestors
caressing our present with their nightmares,
escaping, fleeing, marching into the darkness
only to appear again and again within us,
lightning bolts igniting fires,
leaving us depleted of energy,
the past does not let us rest,
or escape our memories or ease our futures.
For what are we but grains of sand
pressed against each other
until we become stones,
hardened, we are buried under slabs of concrete,
nothing but rocks filling our souls…
Melissa Andres’s poetry has appeared in The Chicago Quarterly Review, Other Side of Hope, ArLiJo, Rattle Magazine, MER, The Laurel Review, and elsewhere. She grew up in Florida (Miami and Sarasota) but has lived in New York and Europe. She has worked as an educator and taught English as a second language. She holds a BA in International Studies from the University of South Florida and an MFA in creative writing from Sarah Lawrence College.