Poetry by Noel Poston

Porchlight Prize in Poetry, Third Place

Noel Plennert Poston finds endless inspiration from living among the hills and hollows of Middle Tennessee. She belongs to two incredibly creative writing groups and collaborates with two poet friends. Her work has appeared in the Tulip Tree Review, Poetry Superhighway, The Walnut Branch, and most recently in Solid Food Press, among others.

Ordinary Moments

"Extraordinary things happen in ordinary moments, like watching my brother pull into the driveway after working a double shift thirty odd years ago. The dynamics that play out in such moments within relationships remain hidden in memories, when recalled reveal something of the truth of our lives and what matters."

Elderberries

This morning she passed a bank
flush with elderberry bushes,
remembered when she picked
the berries three counties over—

The county where they used to live. When
they built that house at the back of the farm,
where everyone said they should build it
closer to the road. They built it
facing east, where the hills
rose high and made a saddle against the sky,
where the sun would come riding down
into the ravine, overtake the fields
as it galloped west toward gold.

Their backs faced west
the last time they picked together.
Great cataracts of elderberries spilled
across the ditch—
They grabbed the clusters,
reached across the creek,
that breach
they would never cross
again together, buckets
full, bumping into each other.

Airy white inflorescences,
earlier that year, now blackened,
heavy fruit waited to be made
into wine that stained everything
it spilt upon—

So much got left behind.
They couldn’t bear it all.
The farm sold fast, they split
the auction proceeds half.
The wine went out to neighbors,
movers, anyone—

Today, she detoured down the lane.
Just as they were then, the elderberries hung
above the ditch— the creek was dry.
She slowed to look, but did not stop—

She flushed as she passed by
the black birds
feasting to the full—
Entered that blind spot
in the road where the house
in the back fell out of sight,
the farm slipped past her
far beneath the hill.

Night Shift

Never can tell which way they’ll run,
he said stamping his work boots
outside the back door,

Clumps of caked mud from the field
fell away. Third shift over,

I was walking the floor, his son
in my arms as my sister-in-law slept
off her second shift. Daylight

over his shoulder, I shifted the baby closer
to my brother as he reached past
his outstretched arms to firmly
close the open door.

Work-weary eyes flashed
dark beneath thick lashes
as he talked about the buck
he flushed from the late summer cornfield
when he pulled into the rain-soaked yard.

I watched him
from the kitchen window,
saw him step into the trampled field,
crouch low, extend a hand.

Indignant stamp and snort,
the buck stood tall and tossed his head,
turned tail and bounded up the hill.

My brother stood and watched him go.
Turned aside, head down—
walked slow—
Stopped just outside the open gate.
He waited before walking through,
swung it roughly into place
and threw the latch—
I heard it land within
its well-worn notch.

Shifting the baby from hip to hip,
I took his jacket, and hung it up, as he,
back turned to me, surveyed the dawn,
and I stopped wondering if
he’d come home.

The One About Your Mother

That brutal winter on our backs
in the big room of the cabin,
we lived on lies and told old stories.

You will remember,
because I begged you
to tell me again. About
the time your mother

came home after a double
shift. Strode through the house
in her no-nonsense way,
screen door slamming at her back.

Kicked off those clunky
white shoes and peeled
the wrinkled uniform
away, unpinned the cap
and carefully laid it down
beneath the cabbage palm.

Her slip pooled limp
and helpless in the sand.

She plunged head-long into
the amber coils of the creek
behind your father’s shack.
You watched her move naked
in that snaking brackish stream.
You saw but couldn’t see,
deep water oily dark, her skin
a golden blur.

She knew the gator on the bank
could hear her stroking hard
against the current, smelled
her thick black hair releasing
all that pent up power
that had wound
around her skull for hours.

She had paced those tiled halls,
starched cap pinned too tight
against her head.
Clipboard clutched,
she delivered
clipped orders to the orderlies.
Just like she did at home,
to you, her patient boy.

You knew she didn’t
care. Cared less
if the gator came for her.
Cared even less if you saw him
slip silently upstream
and head her way.

Carefully you folded up
the uniform, aligned
the heels of her heavy
shoes. The palm laid
shaded stripes across your face.

You pretended not to watch
for her, pretended
you would wait.

She outlived your father.
She would outswim
the gator, reach the bank
across from you,
stand up and stare you down,
and turn away.