WOMANIFESTING

By: Meri Culp

:

Cayenne Warning

Even the pepper’s skin will burn to the touch, Mom, my son says

as he fingers the slim fire, the just-picked red ripeness.

Be careful, he reminds, all kindness, newfound protection,

as I watch him harvest the peppers, red-handed, soon-to-be a man.

I want to tell him of life’s red hot sting,

of his grandmother’s dying request

for me to paint her fingernails chili pepper red,

to unearth from her drawer a favorite lipstick,

Revlon’s Marooned, the color of black/red gardens,

the deep bite of goodbye, an open wound.

I want to say, I know of burning, my son,

how one night, I fell hard into a sunset,

slammed into a slow-blaze burn

of every shade of red,

learned how crimson turns scarlet,

then fades, like nightfall, old chiffon , dusty and pink.

But instead, I heed his advice,

let him sound the warning alarm,

as if I had lived my life in a gentle garden,

in this place I notice is now: my son, me, our red cayennes.

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By: Meri Culp

Tangerines and Yams

When you are young,

all is skin and juice:

You carry your basket to bed,

brimming overflow of firmness,

rounded to golden delicious curves,

shining summer sheets, tangled in tangerine,

a plumpearpeach dive,

citrus skimming, thirsting

for lemon, for lime,

for the feel of skin.

I am ripe, you think,

all fruit sassy, fresh,

ready to jump, spring into

into the not-so-still-life

of Erica-Jonged verse,

penned in orange-mango-ed lines,

running off the unmade bed,

coursing down the hall.

But soon, the quick-turn of nectar,

seeps into the grooves,

of life, of garden,

to the place you find yourself,

when you are of a certain age,

sifting through soil,

no longer distracted,

by the dangle of fruit,

unearthing the dusky weight

of rich russet, ponderous yam,

this harvest of irregular shapes,

deep, yielding.

You carry your brown bag to bed,

rustic offerings, earth-echoed,

your hands lifelined to all things rooted,

muted tenderness, many-eyed, skinned,

vulnerable stew of strength,

this winter mix of finger shadowed

love, here on time’s bed,

here, still burning orange,

this yam-halved sunset,

this red - rooted sky.

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Meri Culp has been published in various journals, including Southeast Review, Apalachee Quarterly, BOMB, Painted Bride Quarterly, Nomads, Snug, The Northeast Chronicle, and Sweet: A Literary Confection. Her poems have also appeared online in True/Slant and USA Today and in the anthologies North of Wakulla and Think: Poems for Aretha Franklin's Inauguration Day Hat. Culp is currently working on a collection of stalk vegetable poems--from asparagus to rhubarb--and Gulf oil spill poems.

 Meri Culp is SO WOMA.