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Two Pieces by Edward Holgate
IOWA BURIAL
Even in Iowa things change.
The famed philodendron
always trimmed exactly ten
inches in length droops now
onto the floor. At the burial,
the stepdaughter wore a sun
dress and pink shoes, a dubious
mistake, standing beside
her somber-suited brothers.
She never much like Pauline
coming into their lives,
shooing their grandmother back
to the farm in Dunkerton.
The pastor christened Pauline
one of God's competent souls,
an accomplished artist (she
dabbled in oils), and a patient
listener. For twenty-seven years
she was a secretary
for a local public accountant.
A devoted wife, she loved
arranging peonies and sweet peas
Glenn clipped from his garden.
Opening a hymnal, the pastor
ended in song, her high, thin voice
unfit for out-of-doors.
At the house the grandchildren
listen to the grandfather
chime away their Saturday
afternoon. Friends and neighbors
file through with suspicious,
foil-covered plates: condolences
of casseroles and carrot cake.
They say it's the least they can do.
In the living room the new
son-in-law opens tired curtains;
everyone gasps, looks away.
A goldfinch darts from the feeder
into a neighbor's yew.
DINNER AT THE PRESIDENT'S HOUSE
Trampling the white carpet learned
men speak of Kandinsky, spirituality,
the noble nothingness of color
paint pulled across raw canvas with a camel
hair brush.
On a silver tray trust
shoulders in: highballs of gin and tonics.
Mrs. Dunlin, gobbling cashews
in her slender bill, reaches for a glass.
A wayward nut falls to the floor.
The president, the men from development
crowd about her settee, smiling,
engaging in polite repartee; the dowager
makes a grating trill. Still,
upon her neck diamonds dazzle.
Wives stand over the ham
gammon guardians, fussing with the ends
and tidbits, stirring a bowl of pearl
onions. Down a long dark hall long faces
cram the gilded mirror.
Keep it under your hat,
the English professor bellows, gin
gesticulating toward the window.
Outside, in the garden, trained tulips form
a necklace around the chokecherry tree.
Edward Holgate was educated in the United States
and Mexico and earned a Masters in Creative Writing
from Brown University. Currently at work on a poetry
manuscript entitled "Diagnosis," he lives in New Mexico.
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