Carrie Teresa Maison: Four Poems


Male Call

In Biloxi
he stands in line
for the picture machine.

Refined in a uniform
he smiles for her.
Hoping to arrive
somewhere in Axton
pasted in black and white.

She smiles at
his picture,
its introduction.


 She tells me to wait     

and I always do what I’m told
so I sit back clutching my doll,
listen to her 64 Impala hum and keep beat.
She has the heat on wide open
since it’s December
and I get cold.
My brother is in the front seat
leaning back to help me tie
Rainbow Brite’s shoes.
I can’t stop applying
my Chapstick.  I see my mother
in the doorway of our house
yelling as the Christmas dishes fly
past her onto the porch.  She is a shadow
to me, a figure
in the family album.  My
brother pulls the cigarette
lighter from the dash,
its fiery rings shine like lava.

Mimosa Tree

We are somewhere in August.
You are dangling from the Mimosa,
your hair dressed
in a hundred little pink puffs.
I am slinging the blade
up and over my shoulder.
The sky is nearly emerald
with storm.   I can hear the hot bugs.
The trees are thick with webs of cotton.  You are
still there in the branches, laughing among the pink poms.


 Figure Eight in 1984

Frozen roots, dig into
around the weeping willow
leaves drooping,
it’s bark nearly dead. I planted
daffodils in the pebble-scattered path.
Blankets of willow leaves
shag like wigs
draped over tire tracks,
spines of dirt, that scattered
and collected you.