Menopause

​It was always early summer
when I visited the farm.
        I ate cherries endlessly,
        spitting their pits into Grandma’s 
        furrowed rich garden soil.
The swing creaked under a burgeoning bacchanal
of arbored green grapes
each bunch graced with tendrils of cherubic curls.
        My hands were blood red raspberries
        Never could resist them
        No matter what grandpa said.
Garden paths heady 
with rose, lilac and mystery scents 
led through chickens
that scattered like mercury
        on their way to the hay and manure of the barn…
        thick clouds of white wool
        billowed away from Grandpa’s sheep shears.
I was nine and I was thirsty
I grabbed the blue screen door
leapt into the kitchen
        and there she was…
        my Grandma
        butt naked
        Botticelli-beautiful
One
pubic hair
        She gasped 
        darted behind the cold, white fridge
        Ashamed
Why was she hiding 
such beauty?    
I couldn’t understand it…

        Now I can
        squinting at these memories
        through my blue readers
But that glimpse gave me spring 
And I swoon at the scent of my Freesias
that nod, “Botticelli-beautiful”
as I pass…


© Vicki Gunter, spring, 2004

Dedicated to Addie Smets, my grandma, 
and Evangel King for the creative watershed.