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Georgia Blues Dew & Albacore Shells

A woman and her introspective laundry days

By R.C. TaylorPublished 2 years ago Updated 2 years ago 3 min read
4
Georgia Blues Dew & Albacore Shells
Photo by Jutta Weber-Vidal on Unsplash

Floral sheets wave in the wind

like hoisted sails broken free from masts,

and with them wafts the smell of laundry,

the same detergent that the last hug

with Grandmother smelled like,

full of warm sunlight, sweet blooming Georgia Blues, and love

–always love.

.

Sometimes, the world hoists me up there too

with the laundry,

to flutter about all tethered Icarus in sea summer air,

arms pinned with clothespins like a butterfly–an Emperor

held under the sun’s heedy lepidopterist gaze–left

out to dry,

to figure out how to wring all the doubts

and tears from my drenched mind.

.

Under the melted crayon sunset

I had put the best pieces of myself

next to all my broken things,

shut tightly in an ivory jewelry box

next to shattered albacore shells

gathered carefully by tiny hands

and crushed childhood dreams.

And next to the ring that you gave

me with faulty promise,

unused and empty

of more than just my finger.

.

Sometimes, at night,

when my heart is weary and eyes tired,

the moon grows a face

that looks eerily like my mother’s,

blurred with childhood recollection and estrangement,

and asks me,

with singsong abandon and moths erupting free,

if I am happy with myself, and I never

know how to answer.

.

See, my grandmother told me that the only goal in life

I should strive for

is to be

happy.

Full stop.

And for her the full stop was more

than just the end of the sentence,

it meant throwing away the whole damn typewriter

so you couldn't be tempted by those

who would bring you down

to alter those words.

.

Sometimes, I pull the typewriter out of the trash,

Raccoon fishing for more garbage to dine on,

And rewrite them anyways.

.

Sometimes, I give away my power

As freely as the sun gives warmth–unconditional

And with no expectations–

And I thought you stole all the love I had left as greedily

As the darkness steals the day.

.

But this new love is a subtle thing,

Unlike the all encompassing love that swallowed

me whole

like the great fish did Jonah

the day I met you.

This love is like slipping on a silk robe over raw, naked

skin,

Like the gentle swaying of waves

On the ocean’s rest days,

Lulling sailors and fish to sleep,

And like the quiet, eternal

kiss of land and sky.

.

This love sneaks up on me quietly one day,

tip toeing around all my misgivings and reluctance,

a masterful dancer ballerina-ing their way home.

This love catches my gaze from across the yard

one heatwave afternoon with drying laundry

and I lean down and

meet the reflection of my eyes in the dew

on Grandmother’s forgotten Georgia Blues,

petal cupped mirror glimmering

with shimmering intensity,

showing me who I really am

underneath all that has happened to me,

I see more of myself in the resilient dew

on a tiny flower than I ever have,

and I finally begin to love myself;

.

Love myself with all the fullness and imperfections of sea summer air,

Love myself softly and with patience like lost Grandmother hugs,

Love myself fiercely as the moon does the tide,

Love myself beautifully like smashed albacore shells,

and with all the new beginnings of fresh laundry fluttering in the wind.

love poems
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About the Creator

R.C. Taylor

Part-time daydreamer. Full-time dork.

Follow along for stories about a little bit of everything (i.e. adventure and other affairs of the heart).

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