You Are a Peach
A tiny woman, delicate in a blue cotton dress, stands leaning on her cane in front of a house near the Piazza del Mercado. Beneath a frizz of white hair
her face speaks: brown from years in the Italian sun. Age spots on her forehead like dabs of chocolate. Eyes that grin with the glee of a rascal. In her smile, the joy of a beautiful life.
I am…a…prune, she says, gazing at me, her English hesitant. No, no, I reply, searching for the right words in her language. It’s the summer I spend two weeks in Italy studying poetry.
Sei una pesca, I manage to affirm, touching the fuzz on her arm. We both laugh and, in that way, share the morning. The sun a velvet globe aglow in the orchard of the sky.
Dear Flowers, I’m No Botanist
Did I water you this morning? Not sure. Be patient with me. I worship your blossoms, give thanks for your delicate petals. If I seem to ignore you, it’s only because I become distracted—that fire truck a crimson blur racing down St. Paul Street. My oven buzzing, or is it my phone? Nothing should remove my focus from your sweet comfort. Your golden hues like a glow-worm in a village garden. My dressing gown a matching lemon shade.
Why poison the air with my poor apologies? Unhook me from my guilt. We’ll take a stroll— just us— along the avenue of early autumn. Although you’re half asleep now, soon you’ll awaken in the sun. Our horoscope says: Be bold. Good fortune awaits. Bloom. We can share the news, decipher the clues, unearth the mystery behind words. My tongue a knife cutting away what we don’t wish to hear. After dark, we’ll linger in moon-space.
A woman and her plant alive in the goldfinch night. Among the shadows, a perfect balance of sky and blaze.
Death of a Saleswoman
The tantalizing aroma of orange crullers wafts from the gourmet bakery aisle in Sibley’s, our glitzy downtown emporium
where I work part-time in high school—in men’s shirts, pajamas, robes, underwear, ties. One Saturday, a guy with stooped shoulders shuffles into the store.
I’m Joe, he says. My wife died, I’ve lost weight. His clothes hang; he doesn’t know his size. How about a bathrobe? I ask,
leading him toward a full-length mirror. He tries on a crimson silk first, then a smart blue plaid trimmed with gold cuffs.
Joe’s body swims in a yellow dazzler featuring deep pockets. That robe makes both of us laugh. My supervisor
glares, her features mannequin-pale: Your job is to sell, not schmooze. The fashion play lasts way past lunch.
Joe’s face picks up light. He starts to move like Fred Astaire—a little stiff but charming. My job on the line,
I send Joe off to the bakery, a whiff of Spring in his step. He circles back with a glazed- sugar smile, plus two orange crullers for me.
From a plastic hanger I remove a sleek, green flannel robe, then a silver fleece soft as a baby’s palm.
Pat’s Dancing School
On Brooks Avenue, I drive by a boarded-up
eyesore the size of an extra-large chicken coop.
This abandoned shack once housed
all the sparkling confetti of my girlhood.
My mind ricochets to 1957. I see Miss Pat,
a dark-haired pixie with legs the length of the Finger Lakes,
her limbs a vision in black fishnet hose.
On a raised platform inside the front door—
puffing on a filtered Pall Mall—
she purses her scarlet lips then stuffs
our parents’ cash into a silvery drawstring bag.
Lemon breath mints freckle the lacquered desk.
I salivate over Miss Pat’s neon manicured nails,
shiny as the metal plates on her patent leather heels.
Scrambling into my own worn tap shoes, I greet
my peers. Gangly and loose, six of us face the mirrored
wall in the small back room, waiting for the music.
A 45 spins on a blue player. Miss Pat,
Goddess of Iridescence, sizzles in sequins
as she sweet-talks commands:
Toe Tap
Ball Heel
Brush Drag
Shuffle
I thrived in that crowded closeness,
Miss Pat’s sultry perfume wafting over our heads
as we tapped our simple Morse codes.
Fluorescent lighting the only fake thing.
Before recitals, satin and lace costumes emerged
from bags stored in a tiny closet. Glitter
dotted the floor like ants decked out for Mardi Gras.
Sometimes a mouse popped up from its tutu netting bed.
The place glistened with possibilities, unlike
my gray grammar school just down the block,
where nuns in black habits tapped
rulers against our desks, scolded us in pale tones.
Pat’s Dancing School expanded the rooms
in my brain into a glamorous rapture.
I felt forever draped in layers of chiffon,
ready to face the worlds I didn’t know,
Miss Pat’s voice a constant refrain:
Give me a dance, girls. Raise those chins.
Smile from the inside, or the music won’t work.
Shirley J. Brewer graduated from careers in bartending, palm-reading and speech therapy. She serves as poet-in-residence at Carver Center for the Arts in Baltimore. Her poems garnish Barrow Street, Poetry East, Slant, Gargoyle, Tar River Poetry, and many other journals/anthologies. Shirley’s books include A Little Breast Music (Passager Books), After Words (Apprentice House Press), and Bistro in Another Realm (Main Street Rag). Her fourth poetry collection, Wild Girls, was published by Apprentice House in June, 2023. Website: shirleyjbrewer.com