Improv 1, Week 9

Gloss
-Angie Estes

My mother said that Uncle Fred had a purple
heart, the right side of his body
blown off in Italy in World War II,
and I saw reddish blue figs
dropping from the hole
in his chest, the violent litter
of the jacaranda, heard the sentence
buckle, unbuckle like a belt
before opening the way
a feed sack opens all
at once when the string is pulled
in just the right place;

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When I was young my grandfather threatened to sell me
to the gypsies. The sale would be final,
he said, no returns. Forced to their caravan,
made to wear rags and chains.
Every broken lamp or carpet stain
summoned his threat.
Every fib that floundered
past teeth meant a life of dirt, scrubbing
wagon wheels, or polishing stolen silver.
Once I dropped a jar of beets
on the white carpet of my grandmother’s kitchen.
All at once I saw my life as gone.
A blackboard in its finite blackness.
And after the boat ride
to France comes dismantle as I’m stripped
of my sweater and given a hand sewn smock,
fashioned miss-matched
pieces of fabric resembling
my grandmother’s quilt.