November 2018 – Tricia McCallum

A poem by Tricia McCallum. May 8, 2020. P{rofile photo of a young ginger haired girl.

Phantom Pain

November 10, 2018 1 Comment

My womb lies intact, unused.

But on afternoons that stretch too long in gloom

I allow myself to imagine her.

Perhaps hair the color of cinnamon and a tendency to

sink into a slough of despond.

A writer, too, I wonder.

Or just as easily a short order cook, a firefighter,

a glassblower.

Her hair would probably have parted to the left,

her second toe longer than the first.

She’d need spectacles from day one,

have a weakness for blackberry jam, the minor chords,

night over day.

Odds on she’d be left handed

and prone to itchy rashes that would randomly occur

and vanish the same way.

Her name would be Catherine like her grandmother’s.

She would be no one’s fool

and no one’s daughter.

You need to know that I want
Unabashedly sentimental songs.
Think Van Morrison
In his earlier, less angry days and
Dylan, in his later, gentler ones.
An instrumental of Annie Laurie is a must,
As too Mark Knopfler,
Who so magically supplied the soundtrack
For my days here.

You’ll need really good food for after.
Excellent, piping hot coffee and brewed Orange Pekoe in china pots,
Kentucky Fried Chicken,
Pizzas made to order,
And a Build Your Own ice cream sundae station
To add the requisite whimsy.

Display a very few pictures of me,
Not huge Bristol boards packed full of them,
So popular these days.
Black and white predominating, if you will,
My unwavering preference.

Flowers?
Yes, my nod to tradition,
Scads of calla lilies, but white only,
The yellow look fake somehow,
Oh, a few off white roses, would you,
Champagne they call them now.

And in the middle of everything
Position one commanding vase of
Fat white peonies,
Because their fragrance, their sheer deliciousness
Outdistances all the others combined.

Everyone there ought to tell
One story about me that stands out for them,
And not just of sweetness and light.
The dark, too.
You all know
I was more than one shade.

A piper would be wonderful at the close,
Just one, as there was for my father,
A whole band of them he felt excessive
And I must agree.

Then let me go.
Knowing that most days
I cherished this life of mine
And that while briefly here,
Laughed probably more than most,
Loved a few of you beyond measure,
And with providence in my corner
Was able to write a few poems
I would not change one word of
Even now.