The Sunday Poem: Reactions to the Awful News

I. The Preacher

Poor Jenny Blade she spent her days
Whistling with her teakettles,
Humming tunes in bare wood rooms
And watching crop dust settle.
The sun fell hot on what was not
Quite a shabby little farm
And Jenny Blade sweated and stayed
And did no one no harm.
But in the dark, her country heart
Pounding fast and narrow,
Jenny rubbed and drew her blood
And lit up bone and marrow.
A true believer, in her fever,
In God and all the devils,
She was sure she was not pure
And was destined down to Hell.
And when she dozed with windows closed
And shades all drawn up tight,
She swore the air was filled with fair
And frightful demons of the night.
So poor Jenny Blade died today—
The funeral is tomorrow.
I feel no loss but I’ll raise a cross
And pretend to feel some sorrow;
While she haunts the steam, all gaunt,
Shifting, serrated, whistling, brave,
An edgy film of smoke and will,
That sinning ghost of Jenny Blade!

II. Mother Martin

So my spinster sister swept her soul
And fell into a grave?
I told Jonas weeks ago
She was looking peaked. God save
Her weary bones! Lord knows
She slaved enough, she worked hard
To keep herself alive! When the land won’t grow
And people treat you hardly
Decent, you get to thinking,
What if I moved
Away from this damn town? It’s sinking
Into prejudice, anyhow. When it can’t be proved
Nohow that a husband’s needed
To grow the corn or cook the meal,
Then Lord knows she was a saint, and no bleedin’
Parson or reactionary snot kid’ll
Tell me otherwise! No, they can’t,
Not me, a widow since they was babes piddlin’
In their pants.

III. The Shopkeeper

She paid her bills on time,
Always to the cent. Each week
She bought some milk, some salt,
Sugar for her candies,
Meal for all the ducks.
Her credit was good, and I
‘Spect whoever gets her farm
Will have good credit too.

IV. The Teacher

A bad example to the kids and that,
But good Lord what a mind!
She thought as fast as rattlers
Strike, for all she was half blind.
She’d seen a lot in this here town
In her half century and some.
When she was younger she came around
Whenever the kids were going home.
She’d watch them walk along and after
Be able to tell me which had failed
The quiz that day, which had laughter
Like bells on dancing shoes, which trailed
The class in spelling “February” and which
Was beaten by his folks. I swear,
If I wasn’t educated I’d say she was a witch.
But that’s not here nor there, I daresay.

V. The Boy

I found her, sirs, I did, I did,
Rocking, talking in her rocking chair,
Talking well after she was dead!
The chair it moved and grooves were worn
In floor flat by her feet, and her tongue
Ran along like it never did
Before she was deceased. The stink
Was something fearful, thinking back,
And back inside the house the
Smell was stronger than manure.
Her eyes were shut but the eyes they bulged
And her feet were bare and blue
And red—and I ran yelling out
“Watch out! Watch out! She’s still talking,
But old Jenny Blade is dead!”

VI. Mrs. Shay

I had no truck with the likes of her.
I’ve got nothing to say.
My husband thought her horse was nice,
But she wouldn’t sell for what he’d pay.

VII. Old Crow

When she wore a gown it soared
And swung like feathers on a bird.
When she danced she twirled her feet
And tapped out rhythms no one heard.
When she was young Miss Jennifer
She cooked a meal or two for me,
We chatted all the night. Dower
be damned! said I, but Father
Said money really mattered.
So she went unwed and I went on
And married Ellen, whose ashes now are scattered.
Now Jenny’s gone and soon so will I
And the old ones will have vanished.
Ah Ellen! Even you have vanished,
Even you have vanished…

VIII. The Fellow With the Suit

Who the hell was Jenny Blade?
And why the devil care?
She’s laid to rest, it’s for the best —
She hadn’t flesh to spare.
I’m just passing through, you know,
I never knew the gal.
But if you’d like me to show
A token sorrow, then hell!
I’m sorry—now, can we talk
About the loan and contract
And why Jasper balks
At giving me my money back?

IX. Jenny

Whistling, mumbling, rocking in my chair,
I talked with ghosts and people not quite there
And now that I have passed away, my cot
Lies empty bare, and the sun is not as hot
On my thin neck, I feel alive again, ready
To take on worlds again, even dead,
To twirl and dance again, to be what I
Had never been, to laugh and hate and cry
Again, to get past the shallow shade
That I’d become, a person entirely made
Of other’s opinions of who was Jenny Blade.

Opinions and lives always fade.

X.

Goodbye, Miss Jennifer, take your bows
And hope they shut the door when you leave,
Turn out the light,
Close the gate,
And someone remembers to feed the cows.