Two Poems
Marc Swan Christmas Morning, 1960 On a conifer branch tucked in a small white envelope above the unicorn ornament, beside a string of flashing white lights, the face of Ulysses S. Grant peers out. Closer to the floor, easier to reach, another with that same image for my younger sister. It’s an annual gift he gives in lieu of boxes brightly wrapped in colored paper, splashed with ribbon, maybe a bow, a red bow to highlight the season. There’s no sleigh or jolly fat man or a wife wearing a white mobcap teasing a group of tiny men, offering a shiny apple to a red-nosed deer. It’s dark in the morning, snow drifted outside the front window. Mother tends the kettle chirping in the kitchen, gray Formica table pulled out from the wall, four chairs tucked underneath. No hot chocolate, muffins, donuts, or scones, but we always had enough to eat. After Hours Aunt Jesse raised two girls after Uncle Mel died, changed her name to Toni, bought a ’62 Chevy Impala convertible, hung out in Syracuse clubs sixty miles north with cousin Bert listening to Ray Charles, Johnny Mathis. The family gossip was she found new bed partners most Saturday nights. She was a cosmetics clerk at McLean’s during the week. Bleached-blonde hair in a beehive, red satin jacket draped over a low-cut blouse, tailored skirt, slick shoes that sparkled in the light, she took me for a ride in that fine-tuned driving machine, windows down, radio blaring, the wind like an old friend danced around us. Her older daughter was called the town pump, had a reputation far exceeding the truth. She was quiet, more of a plain Jane, an A student who kept to herself. A few of the local boys talked shit about her at Harold’s Place where I hung out, not knowing she was my cousin, which led to nasty words, fists flying. Her sister had a baby out of wedlock. After the adoption, and the rumor mill quieted, she spent most of her time in a tiny flat on Prospect Street leaving daily for an insurance job she hated. I visited in the eighties, John Travolta poster on one wall, Olivia Newton-John on the other. Time warp? Maybe, or just wanting to spread those wings, but never learned to fly. |
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About the Author:
Marc Swan is a retired vocational rehabilitation counselor. His poems have recently been published or forthcoming in Atlanta Review, Ropes, Last Call Anthology, Chiron Review, among others. today can take your breath away, his fourth collection, was published in 2018 by Sheila-na-gig Editions. He lives with his wife Dd in Freeport, Maine.
Marc Swan is a retired vocational rehabilitation counselor. His poems have recently been published or forthcoming in Atlanta Review, Ropes, Last Call Anthology, Chiron Review, among others. today can take your breath away, his fourth collection, was published in 2018 by Sheila-na-gig Editions. He lives with his wife Dd in Freeport, Maine.