848 Family Farm 7-21-19

It ended up I didn’t
marry Mary Jo.

Her giggling, flirting flaunts,
her teasing temptations,
broke the lure of her lovely breasts
and the thrawl of her silky Cherokee hair
draped across her shoulders,
down her back,
frilling that wonderful ass!


I might have married her mother,
a mere fifteen years her senior,
more an older sister,
only thirteen years, mine,
ever tender,
ever sure,
tended me
when my breathing succumbed
to the corn-top-tassel-pollen
their farm-house window-sills,
back-porch floor
and my weakened asthmatic lungs
my inhaler couldn’t help.

She led me down creaking stairs
to the cool, dark root cellar,
cleared off the canning table,
covered it with thick horse-hair-blankets.
She lay me down,
spoon-fed me sweet honey
from her bee hives,
stacked behind the barn,
the comb floating in it
like a baby in the womb.
She caressed my face
with warm, moist, cotton towels,
cradled my head in her lap,
as my breathing evened,
coughing ceased.

She sighed as,
leaving me to her cures,
she climbed the stairs
to her second-floor bedroom,
empty now,
but for the passion she remembered,
years ago,
before hard-scrabble-farm-work
took its toll
and broke her husbands will
and she buried
Mary’s father
on the hill.

About Ken Greenman

Married and Happy. Retired and busy. Living in NC. 71 and counting. December 12, 2020 and it's 72! ... I would love some written comments, critiques, adulation or kind suggestions.... If you have the time and or inclination, please feel free! Not in fear but by faith. We will see. See you later! If you ever want to talk for real, email me and I will send you my cell number.... I am enjoying this!
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