Mugshot of Grandma by Kristene Brown

If this photo could speak
    it would
slur, it would spit. Framed
in hard edges,
black and white, her face
a fight,
a riot
     of broken lines
in dirt worn cheeks.
Taken, the night she charged
into every rowdydow honky-tonk
west of Warsaw,
for that mean old mister
Pop-Pop. Her hair fist-knotted
     into the bog-slosh
     of tears and mud
tangled into some long night,
last call,
     whiskey, beer,
        fuck it all.
Her mouth a slow drawl
song and dance
of handcuffed backtalk
in that cattle-dusted
back lot where she found him
     with her,
the other woman.
In the photo her eyes are closed
as if she's crying
or is about to.
in a quick white flash—
when she wasn't even looking.




Buy Scraped Knees by Kristene Brown

Sod Webworm 107

I don’t know
I’m depressed
I can’t go hiking
or biking
or do anything except
harvest bittersweet nightshade
and play with the roots of hemlock

so lonely now
so lonely now
so out of sorts now
so lacking now
so what now

we move
on to something different
something more/less satisfying
something more/less gratifying
joysuffering awaits

a practice

poetry, a countermeasure