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FACING WEST

Wearing men's breeches she had ridden
bareback, driving cattle home
across the unfenced prairies; 
clipped her hair short
though ladies wore theirs long.
She had sat hatless and ungloved
in church and (I've been told)
sampled apples from many orchards.

Old and grey, her eyes lost in wrinkles,
smile taut across ill-fitting dentures,
cane in hand, she counselled me:
             "Don't be afraid of anything.
             When I was young, like you,
             I kept a pet rattlesnake
             in a box beneath my bed.
             He didn't bite me . . . "

But unconvinced, every time I saw one,
I ran screaming from the striped ribbon
of evil writhing through prairie grass.

Later, too much later,
I wondered why the rattler
hadn't bit her
and if she knew what had become of him.

Old grandmother, you who loved me well,
you were so different from other
pioneer women . . .
even your grave faces sunset west.

      

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Copyright 1989 by Mildred A. Rose,

all rights reserved.
Originally published by The Music House Press.
No part of this collection may be reproduced,
except in short reviews, without the
author's permission.

Feb 08, 2012, 05:24 AM CST

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