Rebecca Foust
She Returns from Retreat,
Having Shed Her Deadlies
Back now from my silent, fasting retreat
I no longer feel inappropriate rage when my cat
misses her litter box, nor do I long to eat
her kibble. I can look directly at
my neighbor's artesian well without cursing
the dowser who charged half a mill
to drill a dry hole. The parking valet,
with his really low, baggy pants? It's hard,
but I cope. The need to accumulate
more shoes? Gone, and I'm off to Goodwill
tomorrow to donate the rest all away.
My plan for today, meanwhile: to keep still
chillax, have a bath. Indulge the one sin
all that mind-numbing chanting seemed to condone.
Her Mother's Advice
Her mom had dispensed all kinds of advice
that did not apply. Like never wear
white after Labor Day--no one thought twice
about Labor here, nor knew how to tell where
summer left off. As for each day's clean set
of briefs in case of a car accident
and peeping EMTs--with every street
corner nail-saloned and each salon bent
on waxing its clients "commando"--this felt,
well, a bit quaint and off-point. There was one
piece of advice, though, that still served her well:
If you can't say something nice, then
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| Holly Trostle Brigham: My paintings are rich with symbolism. I include flowers, butterflies, and other things from nature that communicate messages about the subject. These elements are interconnected with biographical references to tell a larger story about the sitter's life or place in history. | |
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