The Poetry of Sheila Rosecrans

I've been published in various small magazines (ie "Common Lives/Lesbian Lives") and small gay and lesbian publications (Bay Windows--Boston) for the past 20 years.

The Haunting

I awoke fearful this morning; you were not next to me.
Trapped in tangled sheets with your taste fresh on my lips,
my hunger for you still pulsed through my aching body.
Last night you haunted my being; my every cell
echoed with your mind-wrenching resonance.
I recall your apricot taste and your fragrant skin
as my anxious tongue searched the hollows of your joy.
So, too, have my eyes sought your back in a familiar room
as I study your neck, your ear lobes, the curious way
your straight hair waves back on each side of your face.
And when you turn, I see your breasts ample and firm
beneath your perennially plaid shirt are as exciting
as the last time I saw them five years ago
or was it last night?

The Ghost Bear

I awaken in the middle
of this very dark night
high on a quiet ridge
in the Armstrong Woods.
I turn towards a sound,
the gentle rustle of grasses:
you walk soundlessly away
on a self-appointed journey
your body shimmers
in the dim moonlight
as softly as a bear returns
to a half-remembered dream.


I could not sleep
until I again felt
your warm belly
against my back.

Plum Preserves

Thoughts of plums stirred down
to longer preserve their sweetness
in jars saved from mayonnaise,
peanut butter, other times, meals,
steam on your stove, boil down,
recapture the happiness of time
spent with you on this Sunday.
May we preserve shared hours
with the same practical chores,
stored in newly washed jars
of everyday leftover glass
filled in extraordinary ways.

Afternoon Delight

Wednesday
still buzzes in my ears
like a bumblebee
hovers over a rose
its petals open to sun
and the predilection of bees.


I am still charmed
by the rise and fall
of our delight shared
in your front room
on a September afternoon.

Carnations

I awoke to the spice scent of carnations
feeling translucent this early morning;
pulled thin with your presence in my nights;
you spent the week walking through my dreams.
Uneasiness at your sudden appearance is apparent
in my uncertain coffee, sans usual accompaniments.
Your silver head flashes through my midnight visions,
reminds me of the strength I was to discover
when you gave me no answers to my questions or thoughts,
or when you showed me, like you, to forgive one more time
that I thought I could. What I viewed as simple words
was an unconditional gospel, sturdy flowers in your hands,
your life. You chided my need for a precise theology,
showed me how to bake bread and clean fish for the hungry,
and we discussed Niebuhr and Tillich waiting for the bus.
One day, after at least 3 postponements, we met,
me, apprentice cleric, you, pastor, and I insisted
I must leave; you again said nothing and let me go.
I left for another camp where words were suspect
and the gospel was forlorn and kept changing.
I returned in a few years and you were still there
like the gospel you preached, clear running water
in what had been a desert.


The multitudes mourned, remembered you at the cathedral;
I stayed home unbelieving, cowering in fear and my own confusion.
It is now one year later, the anniversary of your death,
and I still feel you've postponed another of our weekly meetings,
but the ache within me builds,
like the sharp fragrance of carnations
at my grandmother's funeral
when I was twelve.

I wished we'd grown up together

I wished we'd grown up together;
We could have been best friends.
We'd climb trees, catch bullheads
In the creek at the edge of town.
We'd race the wild summer wind,
Play kick-the-can, run-sheepie-run,
And not even once run like girls;
Or build ourselves an igloo and
Perfect angels in the fresh snow.
We'd check each other's bared chests
As small breast buds would bloom;
And marvel at the hairs under arms.
At 13, we'd try on nylons, garter belts
With giggles, and maybe mom's heels.
We'd wonder why the boys we knew
Were so stupid, so completely dumb;
Then discuss Nancy Drew's latest plot,
And move on to baseball. We'd score
High in work-up; pop flies into the air.
We'd make the bat sound a big "crack"
Like no boy ever really even could.
We'd sleep next to one another
Every single summer night 'til fall,
And watch the flashing fireflies, or
Lay away and count the stars, and
Not be frightened of the hooting owls.

© Sheila Rosecrans

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