The Other Side of Vanity

On the other side of vanity is pride

but not the deadly sin of unearned

grandiosity or haughty laurels some may

wish to place on my head as if I sprinted,

twisted, or punched my way to Olympic gold.

I have seen this pride beam in the face

of brown girls who see my license plate

and in the voice of black men who stop me

in parking lots to shake my hand and call

me sister and the tiny hand of  a little boy

who has touched the coarse hair of the president

and now knows it feels like his own.

This pride comes from knowing that one

can play by their rules and win.

~Pamela Taylor © 2013

Absent, Always

Are tears from professional spaces

though frustration is ever-present

in the manufactured air

And so too are hugs and hands

of comfort to rub shoulders, to cross

boundaries, to tear down walls

Only laughter remains to fill the awkward

silence, to diminish what makes us

human, to deny what keeps us sane

~Pamela Taylor © 2013

After the Funeral

~for Doris

The church doors open to embrace the midday

light, shimmering off the farmer’s pond.

The meadow grass—browned over and stiff—softens

a little in the November sun. This is all

that stands between me and the old country road.

As a child, I burst through these doors, holding

my little brother’s hand, eager to escape the confines

of patent leather shoes, squirm out of our Sunday

best and dip each claustrophobic toe into the cool

water. I can almost hear our mama’s voice

carried on the thin breeze of this last warm

autumn day, calling us home. And just like back then,

my dear brother, you were always the one

to listen, always the first one to cross over.

~Pamela Taylor © 2013

The Sensitive State of Security

The pace of trouble has nearly doubled.

The end could be complicated,

changing, struggling, hampered

by problems. Unable

to hear, the vast majority lost

faith, are already moving on.

To scare, to break their trust happens

on an ongoing basis. The battle

began with attacks, shifted the sensitive

state of security end to end.

Last week, all was compromised.

~Pamela L. Taylor © 2013

Erasure poem from the New York Times article “Health Website Enrollment Far Exceeds October Pace“

Heart Sick

This time it was a mild case:

fluctuating chills and fever,

swollen eyes, nose spouting mucus

into tissue balls. What it wants:

another warm body under chin-tucked

covers. What it gets: citrus and rest.

But I’ve seen it worse: this heart of mine—

unrecognizable—attacking itself like Lupus.

It comes home after every relapse, crumples

into the childhood bed strung out

on the last high. How can I forgive it again,

after I’ve scrubbed the stench of its vomit

from the bathroom floor, after I’ve slept

beside the hospital bed listening to the hiss

of machines breathing all night, after it’s exposed

in the harsh truth of daylight—bruised and black,

almost broken, never to be undamaged again?

~Pamela Taylor © 2013

Only One

I used to think one was magic,

all that remained when you divided

anything by itself. One turned

the tips and pads of fingers

into adding machines, helped

kindergarten hands solve the world’s

biggest problem: the number

of apples if Sally gave me three

when I already had five.

I’ll tell you this: I reveled in oneness

when it meant first and best,

something rare like moon rocks

or a ’49 Jackie Robinson baseball

card. But that was before I walked

into boardrooms and ballrooms

and failed to count any higher.

~Pamela Taylor © 2013