Jean McLeod

FORCING AMARYLLIS

"To force an amaryllis into bloom, place the bulb in a cool, dark place for two months."

Instead of drawing the shade
and lying down beside the cat
who has quite quit purring,
because you've been yowling
like a young lover scorned,
get the hell out of the house
before your friends
forget why they liked you
and begin to toast
your possible demise.

For heaven's sake,
avoid the mirror
tuck your hair
under a woolen cap,
pull on a tee-shirt,
blouse, heavy sweater,
a coat, buttoned
from chin to knee,
if you must, and sunglasses.
If that's
not enough protection
from the world,
wrap an old army blanket
around yourself,
just until you
can get across
your threshold.
Go do anything.
Anything at all.

Filling that prescription
might be a start.

* * *

MANIA

She stood stolidly-not yielding her space
her laughter
like waves breaking on her own private shores
challenged the wind, crying
Me! Me! Me!
like some demented bird.
Wound tightly around her core
she wouldn't, couldn't stop talking.
The skin pulled tight across her cheeks;
her mouth gaped open, open, open
dripping words, words, words.
Her grin, her manic,
her tooth-filled, her gay little
smug little, sad little grin
seemed to seek succor
but her hands
flapping and dipping and weaving hands
thrust her palms forward to
-Stop-
others from speaking
until she finished
explaining, exclaiming, emoting
laughing, gasping, gurgling
reshaping, rehashing
reminiscing

but
she never did.

Jean McLeod lives on the lip of the Chesapeake Bay, where she happily retired from social work several years ago and spends as much time as possible on the beach. She has multiple sclerosis, but pretends, as best she can, that she doesn't. Her poetry and prose have been published in Readers Digest, Family Circle Magazine, NO O Journal, Roux Magazine, Vox Poetica, Powhatan Review , and others. She was a Pushcart Prize nominee.