Swirl

She glides into the exhibit,
flower behind one ear.
Her paintings mass around her, 
poets and artists, hung wall to wall.
Ochre, orange and flaming red faces
stare into the gathering crowd.

You'd never guess she was fifty today.
Fans clamor for autographs; 
a man with spiked hair begs her 
to draw a rose on his thigh.

She one-blows her cake, swirls
a sketch of her daughter in the icing,
knows if she ever gets too old to paint, 
she'll go down proud. Like those actresses--
Garbo or Hepburn. Not like Blanche,
weeping over some man's torn shirt.


Memory 

She surrounds herself with arroz 
congri oriental and malanga,
with this family of strong women,
locking arms against harsh
midwestern storms, against
men once loved, now gone.
She closes off doors to memory,
save rare nights when the sea
rises to paint Miami blue
in her dreams.



Pris Campbell
©2010

Poems for Didi Menendez-50th birthday book

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