I’m pretty psychic Luella said. Can I give you a reading?
I am open, so I say “sure”.
To me give, means give.
“It’s sixty dollars,” she now says.
I am less open to it now.
But she is a friend, and it is only sixty dollars.
(This is when I was still working).
Your chakras are off, do you have a backache?
I stare at her. “no.”
Neck ache?
No
Head ache?
No
Pain in your foot?
I start to giggle.
She gives me a non-friendly look.
I wish I had not already handed over the sixty dollars.
Luella’s mother was murdered.
We were in third grade, Luella and I.
Not best friends, but we had played together.
Red rover red rover, hopscotch and jump rope.
Luella’s mother was murdered in October on a Friday night.
My mother brought Luella home on Saturday morning.
She was quiet, and did not tell me what happened.
After a few days she began asking when her mommy was coming for her.
Her grandparents arrived on a Tuesday.
They lived three states away.
Luella did not know them well, but they took her anyway.
I felt like I had lost a sister.
We wrote to each other twice.
I still have the letters.
I often wonder about Luella.
But I never heard what happened to her.
six little girls made it to Luella’s faerie tea party
the food was dainty, crispy, sugary, nothing hearty
they ate their cookies and laughed about her brother Marty
who was making silly faces, a nine-year-old boy, a smarty
Luella complained to her mother, he was ruining her party.
Her mother made him leave, her adorable brother, Marty.
some girls were not having as much fun, their laughs not as hearty.
not having older brothers, they had been delighted by Marty.
Alternative facts make sense to Luella
Embellishing and alternating truth is her forte’
Her career of choice was readily determined
Politics jumped to the forefront
It might possibly be her only choice
White House Press secretary
or Ambassador to a foreign country?
That is what she is pondering now.
Elton Porter
1907-1924
(An Ode to Luella and John)
My best friend John Molina, and I
Spent many a carefree afternoon on bareback,
Astride the furious gallups
Of our sure-footed steeds;
Barefooted in summer and bundled up in winter;
We rode and ranged over the northern foothills,
Ablaze with mustard blooms in spring,
In search of squirrels and sunsets.
We roamed and roved like Crusaders,
Over those imposing heights,
Awash in winter mud and debris,
Seeking the Holy Chalace of freedom,
But still rich in grace,
Rich in impetuous youth.
And we both talked at length,
About Luella, the girl we most admired;
Certainly not for her obvious beauty, no.
Certainly not for her alluring bashful ways, no.
But instead, for her sublime singing voice.
Ah, I remember it well!
That day in this cemetery long ago,
She sang “All Or Nothing At All” by the front gate there,
And lo, the Muses all gathered in spirit roundabout,
Gathered to christen our surging hearts to the gods,
With a soft embrace,
And a simple kiss.
John Molina
1905-1923
Luella Poland – That name!
That face! Those eyes!
Those long lovely locks of chestnut brown!
Those smiling puckered lips in the dizzy afternoon!
Luella! I love you! I need you!
Alas, I do not feel your arrested heartbeat.
Your electric probing touch.
But alas, I do feel your undulating soul.
Your hard penetrating stare.
From over there!
In the smothering weeds.
From over there!
By the David Morris grave.
Luella! I love you! I need you!
And so, when I saw him kiss you that day,
Over there!
By the front rusted gate,
Over there!
Amidst the lilacs and the hushed screams,
I died a hundred deaths.
And, I descended dreadfully to the land
Of dry sleep.
Descended downward to the kingdom
Of stilled atoms.
Of unspoken testimonies,
Testimonies of reaching, ever reaching, and
Never retrieving.
My soul now is bathed in tears.
Tears I shed for thee, my dearest Luella.
Oh, that name!
That face! Those eyes!
Luella! Luella!
I love you! I need you!
Luella May Poland
1907-1922
The ocean sings my sad refrain.
Sings as the lapsing afternoon
Turns to twinkling twililight.
It sings the polyphonic notes and harmonies
Of a life at once wondrous and magical
And then tragic.
The soft but harsh music of ebb and flow
Of loving, living and then, simply dying.
It sings masterfully the pleasing chords
Of desire and curiosity and fantasy.
It sings the distant aloof music
Of forgotten memories in the gloaming sundown,
Of lost minutes in the stunning shadows,
With the only boy I ever kissed,
The only boy whose trembling touch I allowed
Upon the small of my back,
There in the caressing shade of infinite arousal
There in the absconding darkness of thrilling intimacy!
Indeed, the ocean sings my sad refrain.
It sings now and forever.
It sings the soft music of the stars.
The magical wondrous harmonies
Of ebb and flow,
Of wind and time and space.
It is finished.
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