Sample Poems by Betsy Holleman Burke

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Waiting

I

A warm December day, thousands
of geese wait on the pond. Hundreds
of cattle wait on the hillside. A dozen
horses wait in the paddock. Time waits.

Her sons, brother and sister arrive
from the South. We talk about debut
parties, college children, the view,
our family. Everything, nothing.

We speak little about my cousin
transplanted to this estate. By grace
she made it her own, embraced
a huge family, its mythical patriarch.

II
The way to say good-bye
is through the heart.
Empty it out

say it straight—

I blurt, this stinks, regret it,
too crude. I apologize, fumble.

Try again. Something more
elegant, profound, memorable.
My last chance.

We hold tight, tear up, do not weep.
Try to be strong, fail.

Of course, we fail.

For Marian, December 2021

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Fear of the Knock

My mother, her friends, alone in apartments
with small children, fear the knock on the door.

Fear a uniformed man with a telegram, sad
face, an apology. He comes first thing, first

morning light. Last thing at night. Any time
in between. On high alert, they try to stroll

their babies. But they always rush back, hope
he will wait. No knock, just a nod, a letter.

One day the knock came for Bessie Moore,
snapping beans, listening to Portia Faces Life.

At first she didn’t hear. A second louder knock.
She told mother she was afraid to answer.

Feared word of husband Mark on a ship in the Pacific.
Her feet barely moved. She looked through

the peephole. Saw a man knock on her door.
She opened it a crack. He caught her as she fell.

Knoxville, 1943

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This Fragile Letter

A tiny link in a War time chain from his tent
in North Africa to her small apartment
in Knoxville, fished from the brass mailbox.

Red and blue stripes on flimsy tissue, a six cent stamp,
a bomber soars across United States of America,
US Army Postal Service, March 22, 1943.

Stamped by an Army Examiner, bearing coffee
and ash stains, who worked through letters
of affection and fear, bringing, delaying news.

At last relief. She read his excitement, his love for
his new, small family. Revealed in elegant script,
he laughed I am like her, a few days late,

arriving in the world backwards. He doesn’t mind
I’m a girl, recounts, the news in Stars and Stripes.
He says officers pounded his back, shook his hands,

toasted my hair with a round of ten-dollar cognac.
How mother must have laughed, snuggling a month old
me with his dark curly hair, light blue eyes.

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The Space Between Two Parallel Lines

I hear “my thoughts and prayers are with you”
from your phone, email, hand-written notes.

I beg—come here, hold me tight, your arms
soft on my shoulders, my head cradled.

Risk an unmasked hug, sloppy kiss, a couch
snuggle, prone back rub, dear siblings and friends.

Lift me up and be brave, strong, dare to cross
the space between two parallel lines, lives.

Feed me with funeral meats, pimento cheese,
ham biscuits, crab dip, expensive champagne.

Tell me his stories, make me laugh about
cows racing his truck to become burgers.

Cry with me over the name of our farm,
the siting of his mountain peak in March cold.

Walk me around the world he created—
circle his labyrinth, Standing Stones, the Chapel.

I await a knock, warm brownies, a chili pot,
cheese straws, your warm nosed puppy.

For Susan, November 13, 2020