At the Aviemore Clinic in Scotland
After Reading Valentina Gnup’s It’s a Sad Story
It’s easy to chat about now--
Since the attack—His of heart, mine of lungs.
How I flew 4,200 miles, twenty years after
my father’s passing, to pay homage to his homeland.
I view fields of lavender and thistles
only on drapes and pillows in three hotel rooms.
Almost made it to Inverness and to Loch Ness,
but Beloved shuttles me into this medical clinic
that offers same-day appointments.
I refuse to say I’m sick on holiday.
No. I’m searching for my people.
You’re in the right place,
says Nurse Matthew
as she circles my last name in blue.
The Grants, you’re here.
She pronounces my name with a regal Ahhh
rather than a clipped Ant.
But this is Aviemore,
a resort town in Cairngorms National Park,
nearly 30 miles south of the Highlands
where my ancestor, James the Drummer, once walked.
That’s always the way of things,
Nurse Matthew says and hands me two prescriptions.
If not breathing proper come morning
she will place me in a hospital bed.
Rather than thanking her,
I bow my head,
so she won’t see
this American asthmatic’s tears.
Incantation Just Before the Equinox
After Reading Hayden Carruth’s Scrambled Eggs and Whiskey
Sharp cheddar popcorn and Chardonnay
in the waning twilight--
Santa Barbara, that coastal jewel,
baptized as The American Riviera.
We four seated around a square glass table,
under a faded black and white umbrella.
Sam swinging his arms
to embellish a lawyer-boss-story
and me belly laughing until tears tumble
down my sunburnt cheeks.
I do not want this moment
with our grown son and his beloved
to end.
Raven‘s snuggled under a puffy blanket
with her brown velveteen eyes barely blinking.
She listens to our tale-weaving only child,
who’s honed his skills since toddlerhood.
Shhh, my Sweetness.
I do not wish to hex this second,
the cool, salty air rolling in off the Pacific.
Together, let’s cast a wizard’s spell
to wave off the incoming darkness.
Packing Up and Leaving York, PA
After Reading Prartho Sereno’s Leaving Mendocino
You’ve done all you can
and my breath catches
when you latch the door--
I focus on a crack wide enough to find
the faded pink-bubble-gum-rug inside.
This visit, my first in twenty-four years,
to your childhood – a sagging row-house
where time is stockpiled.
Sixty years of oddities your mother stored:
Proof of your deceased dad’s pre-school inoculations
stuffed in a dining room sideboard.
Thirty-two kernels of browning baby teeth
nestle together with two shotgun shells,
in the top drawer of a broken jewelry cabinet.
Middle son, your third-floor bedroom’s
a dusty sarcophagus of empty boxes,
with two broken toddler feeding chairs
and a crush of smirking Santa candles
that reek of fake cinnamon.
A white high-school band jacket,
monogrammed with your name--
Satin remnants of late 1980s,
in an unclose-able closet.
Outside, under a canopy of January gloom,
I scrutinize a chirpy family of house wrens
whose tiny beaks gulp seeds and snowflakes.
And you, my usual beacon of sunshine,
swear at winter’s whipping wind.
Still, you pick up your yellow shovel,
clear snow-covered stairs and front stoop.
You salt the icy sidewalk, so no one slips.
And together we await late movers.
Jennifer Grant resides in Newberry, FL. Her second collection of poetry, Dangerous Women, received the 2021 Blue Light Press Book award. Her first, Good Form, was published by Negative Capability Press in 2017. Her latest collection, Flower of Life in Three Movements, was just published with Kelsay Books. Find out more at jenniferlynngrant.com.
After Reading Valentina Gnup’s It’s a Sad Story
It’s easy to chat about now--
Since the attack—His of heart, mine of lungs.
How I flew 4,200 miles, twenty years after
my father’s passing, to pay homage to his homeland.
I view fields of lavender and thistles
only on drapes and pillows in three hotel rooms.
Almost made it to Inverness and to Loch Ness,
but Beloved shuttles me into this medical clinic
that offers same-day appointments.
I refuse to say I’m sick on holiday.
No. I’m searching for my people.
You’re in the right place,
says Nurse Matthew
as she circles my last name in blue.
The Grants, you’re here.
She pronounces my name with a regal Ahhh
rather than a clipped Ant.
But this is Aviemore,
a resort town in Cairngorms National Park,
nearly 30 miles south of the Highlands
where my ancestor, James the Drummer, once walked.
That’s always the way of things,
Nurse Matthew says and hands me two prescriptions.
If not breathing proper come morning
she will place me in a hospital bed.
Rather than thanking her,
I bow my head,
so she won’t see
this American asthmatic’s tears.
Incantation Just Before the Equinox
After Reading Hayden Carruth’s Scrambled Eggs and Whiskey
Sharp cheddar popcorn and Chardonnay
in the waning twilight--
Santa Barbara, that coastal jewel,
baptized as The American Riviera.
We four seated around a square glass table,
under a faded black and white umbrella.
Sam swinging his arms
to embellish a lawyer-boss-story
and me belly laughing until tears tumble
down my sunburnt cheeks.
I do not want this moment
with our grown son and his beloved
to end.
Raven‘s snuggled under a puffy blanket
with her brown velveteen eyes barely blinking.
She listens to our tale-weaving only child,
who’s honed his skills since toddlerhood.
Shhh, my Sweetness.
I do not wish to hex this second,
the cool, salty air rolling in off the Pacific.
Together, let’s cast a wizard’s spell
to wave off the incoming darkness.
Packing Up and Leaving York, PA
After Reading Prartho Sereno’s Leaving Mendocino
You’ve done all you can
and my breath catches
when you latch the door--
I focus on a crack wide enough to find
the faded pink-bubble-gum-rug inside.
This visit, my first in twenty-four years,
to your childhood – a sagging row-house
where time is stockpiled.
Sixty years of oddities your mother stored:
Proof of your deceased dad’s pre-school inoculations
stuffed in a dining room sideboard.
Thirty-two kernels of browning baby teeth
nestle together with two shotgun shells,
in the top drawer of a broken jewelry cabinet.
Middle son, your third-floor bedroom’s
a dusty sarcophagus of empty boxes,
with two broken toddler feeding chairs
and a crush of smirking Santa candles
that reek of fake cinnamon.
A white high-school band jacket,
monogrammed with your name--
Satin remnants of late 1980s,
in an unclose-able closet.
Outside, under a canopy of January gloom,
I scrutinize a chirpy family of house wrens
whose tiny beaks gulp seeds and snowflakes.
And you, my usual beacon of sunshine,
swear at winter’s whipping wind.
Still, you pick up your yellow shovel,
clear snow-covered stairs and front stoop.
You salt the icy sidewalk, so no one slips.
And together we await late movers.
Jennifer Grant resides in Newberry, FL. Her second collection of poetry, Dangerous Women, received the 2021 Blue Light Press Book award. Her first, Good Form, was published by Negative Capability Press in 2017. Her latest collection, Flower of Life in Three Movements, was just published with Kelsay Books. Find out more at jenniferlynngrant.com.
