Even in Summer’s Heat
The world breaks
in numerous ways,
in others, it grows.
Trains rumble the earth
from north, south, east, west
as green buds and magenta leaves
come alive around the backyards
of America, yet sometimes
we all get lost
in the cracks of our broken
dreams, and sometimes
we take turns we could
not predict that lead us
to an Eden or peace.
Sometimes we crawl through
hellish mazes of human making
only to rise above the quicksand
of others’ traps and remain
or become victorious, even
in summer’s heat, even in
the most vicious wake.
The underlying love we carry
keeps us moving forward,
an undercurrent keeping our boat
sailing the waters of the familiar
and unfamiliar places.
As the world’s broken pieces
remain unfitting and unglued,
in its wars, murders, sorrows,
there are gleams of love
among the ruins we humans
have created in our needless wakes
of destruction and in our needful
hours of redemption and hope.
Your Shooting Star Finds
Me
for my Meant-to-be Daughter, Skylar
Your shooting star caught my attention
as it bridged your heart to mine,
my ten-year-old, meant-to-be daughter;
please find among your mind’s pictures
places for me, like forget-me-nots, flowers
among the spaces of the tapestry
of your journey. I hope the delicate
seeds of our times-shared and times-to-be
do something positive for your life.
Your smiles, laughter, wit, charms
are treasures in my world like brightly
painted flowers on china in real-time
and in memory. Summer lingers
on the horizon; a new season has arrived,
summer roses bloom in my yard,
a fragrance as sweet as you
offered in the breeze coming across
my half-done patio, a garden
setting where colors and scents speak to,
push toward, an Eden somewhere
in my imagination’s landscape, and here,
at night, your shooting star finds me,
pierces all I am with your heart’s call.
I am here, darling, for you, my
meant-to-be daughter, no matter
what life brings you. It is no secret,
Skylar, love, that my heart loves you
as if you were born to me.
Leaving or Thinking of
Being Separate
To find one’s balance
on this fence
with twisted
joints is not possible.
To understand
the pressures of abandonment,
jealousy—as if one is a possession—
is a tough measure—
can it be reckoned with?
The neglect one feels
when left
for the noise and smoke
of impossible environments
is tough to tolerate—
the liquid truth too bitter to swallow.
Dissatisfaction
is no place to be;
Love runs away
from it fast as a horse
escapes or like a moon
slipping behind clouds.
I want to be the tiger’s
leap, the lion’s roar,
instead of a paler,
less sparkling version
of myself; my spirit
tires, and I can’t hold it back.
I miss the luster, the freedom
of what once was my dance;
my feet knew exactly what to do, and my mind
could hold onto light
and the blue mists
of daring dreams.
Ramblers
Ramblers, gamblers,
samplers, clowns,
and blabbers, all lit up,
on fire with alcohol,
gather to play poker,
their money being shipped
away, sailing from player to player,
whether a Harley rider
or a stool pigeon.
Liquor flows fast,
ashtrays fill,
and Cathy’s smile warms
the barroom, even as one
shivers under the fans,
awaiting a pool player
to return, the ramblers
and gamblers continuing to play
cards all night.
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Maura Cavell is an Associate Professor of English at Louisiana State
University at Eunice and the founder and former editor of the Louisiana Review. While
she covers a variety of topics in her work, it is often a refreshing
blast of light and optimism in a world of less. She is a regular Heinz
57 girl from Pittsburgh, PA.
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