Terry Meissner has been published in the inaugural edition of "The Green Muse " and in the on-line magazine "Sorrowland" She is married, a mother, and middle aged, occasionally grieving and deliriously content.
Memory
First click of hard-heel shoes on sun-kissed walk
It blesses me with memory like some
Familiar scent as certain as spring months
Hold rain my father sat for hours long
His right hand turned my rope while left hand lay
In rigid parody of usefulness
Not unlike our bowl of yellow waxen fruit
And I convince myself that one can't buy
A memory so leave the unbought rope behind
The other children called him names
Taunted him to tears
My father sat without our thanks in endless turning time
In present mind I know your face but tell
Me once again what name you took when you
Were born I call it out between the beats
And hear it's echo in afternoon sky
In Forty Years
My mother is eighty and angry and fierce and loving
I know what they say about the apple
And in forty years will I
Fly into a rage if my husband says the sauerkraut is salty
Or that I buy too many shoes
When he burns his toast
Buys No Name sour cream
Wears too much aftershave or
Rests his pinkie finger beside his nose
In forty years will I
Laugh when he puts on fake tattoos
Make him wear my old t-shirts to bed
Shave his head
Hide my newly purchased shoes under the bed
Ask him to sleep with me when I am afraid of dying
In forty years will I
Trim the hair from his ears
Get him to eat post-dated dairy
Tell him he's useless
Watch the hockey game with him
In forty years will I
Pretend to be sleep in the early morning
The day of his cancer surgery
So that
He doesn't see me cry
Create a free website at Webs.com