Owed to Betsy Sholl, Poet

She said her alter-ego talked tough for her
because talking shit
made her seem less obvious.
Her voice was the flutter of spring wind and robins
or the flowers she was so fond of.
I think she liked mums and daffodils the best
because their yellow souls
could withstand the beatings of the rain
and not fade, or become lost.

She said poets were supposed to taste
the blood of the seasons
and understand the wounds
of growth and dying.

She said daffodils caught rain in their throats
and did not choke.

The mums just stood silent.

When her soul wasn't looking
her words drifted so softly
that you could hear the timid beating of her heart
as she blended words and tears
with ferocious delicacy,
weaving shawls of mist
and sunrays.

When she came to teach at the jail
she brought us flowers
and read poetry
that sparkled with life from the outside.
She told the story of how a pimp
once saved her life
as her apartment building burned.

She smiled as she talked of her daughter
and I remember how her voice sounded.
She never seemed to notice that we all wore
blue shirts and talked shit
that were wore on our sleeves
like a stolen badge of courage.

In those weeks we talked of poets
and learned to use words
like a child's finger-paints.

When she read her poems to us
she would fly
and I could hear the soft flutter
of her wings in the rain.
I remember she let me use her shawl to stay dry
and I caught the soft scent of flowers in it.
Daffodils, I think.

She taught me to catch the rain in my throat
without choking.

She also taught me silence.

M.S.Leavitt
"Jd4george"