Blood Laps
Mae Baneda Jackson reigns
from her throne,
a crate on the side
of the crossway
before the feeder at
S610 at S288.
Her kingdom encompasses
a grassy knoll in
the greatest country in the world.
Like Nzinga, with cinders in her eyes,
She rises like the phoenix,
dazed by the sunlight.
She could have been.
Borne and buried
alive in Jasper, Texas.
She vanished from
Jefferson High School
like a phantom.
An invisible woman,
the alcohol dyed her lips
permanently pink,
like a passionflower.
Her smell was musky
like passion fruit.
Hair, curly like lambs wool,
skin like burnished copper,
shoeless, crusty toes,
she embraces her box,
and builds a mansion
(condominium, apartment,)
with dreams of something
lofty, like a full meal
in a restaurant and
a house with a door and a yard,
or maybe just a bed
that didn't have nails in it.
Scraps of discarded aluminum,
shopping carts, rags and pieces of
cardboard are found treasures.
Her breakfast is from the trash of the
convenience store in the gas station
across the way,
but she always says grace.
And when you hand her a dollar
or a quarter or a ten,
she says thank you.
If you pass her by,
or roll your window up,
or speed by,
or never even see her,
she still sings to herself,
some old Supremes song,
"Stop in the name of love,"
that her dear departed mother loved.
Mae Baneda swims
in a sea of gas fumes.
See her at the crossway,
her arms outstretched,
swimming in blood.
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