poems by
Pat Riviere-Seel
Main Street Rag Press
ISBN 13: 978-1-59948-162-3
42 pages, $10
I met Pat Riviere-Seel in an Asheville workshop nearly ten years ago. Her work was sharp, sometimes searing, and obviously searching for its center of gravity. Since then, Pat has found that center, and in doing so has become a major voice in the NC poetry scene, having served as President of the NC Poetry Society, among other posts. She says she is a recovering journalist, so maybe that's why she was drawn to the material in this new book of poetry. As Pat told me, "These poems grew out of an exercise that I designed for a class I taught for the Great Smokies Writing Program at UNCA. They are the poems I never thought I would write. Velma Barfield’s story has been told in many ways – newspapers, magazines, a nonfiction book. Even Velma wrote a book about her life that was published after her execution. But the daughter’s story is one that stayed with me. I can’t imagine what it would be like to discover that my mother had killed numerous people, including my grandmother and possibly my father. Even the best mother-daughter relationships are complex. Although based on actual and reported events, these poems are all works of imagination."
Pat lives in the mountains of western North Carolina with her husband and two spoiled housecats. They share the woods with black bears, wild turkeys, and numerous other wild creatures. Pat often composes poems while running trails and the Blue Ridge Parkway. Her first collection of poems, No Turning Back Now, was published by Finishing Line Press in 2004 and nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Her poetry has appeared in numerous literary journals and anthologies. Pat is an associate editor of the Asheville Poetry Review. She has taught poetry at UNCA's Great Smokies Writing Program and College for Seniors. She holds an MFA from Queens University of Charlotte.
Prophecy
My mother slung
slurred words at my father,
railed against the evil of alcohol.
He swung back with
how could she,
who drugged herself silly,
condemn him for a few beers
with buddies after work.
She said she needed
her medicine. He said he needed
the woman he married.
A scene repeated like shrill cicadas.
Afterwards, I found Daddy hunched
in the swing he’d hung, staring at something
I couldn’t see. Ashes from his cigarette fell
as he inhaled deep and turned.
Ah, shug, he said and shook his head.
That woman’s gonna kill me.
After My Mother is Arrested and Charged with Murder
It’s not as easy as you might think,
up every morning, dressed and out
to the only job I’ve ever had –
the promised promotion gone
even though I’m the best at what I do,
sorting coats, sweaters by size.
I know the inventory, where to find
hairpins, which aisle holds light bulbs.
I keep up with the sales and never let
anyone use my discount. Ten years
I’ve never missed a day or clocked in late.
Yesterday my boss laid his hand
on my shoulder, said, I’m sorry and
disappeared before I turned around.
I feel customers stare and sometimes
think I hear a whispered, monster.
Or was it mother that I heard?
Everyone wants to know
what’s going to happen next.
I’ll tell you: at the end of the day
four small arms will circle my neck,
I’ll fry chicken, bake rolls, and pray
to any god that will listen.
Velma’s Confession
His voice is not unkind.
For a moment we are two
friends reminiscing,
words pressing between us
through fog and dust. I am
a girl again, unpinning
clothes from the line, denim
that holds the scent of sun.
I stand in the yard under a sky
blue as Mother’s eyes, my arms
filled with sheets and overalls.
I will myself to stay –
hear my name, and realize
I am sitting on a hard chair,
concrete walls close enough
to touch. I try to hide
my shaking hands. Did you –
Did you kill Stuart Taylor?
I want to be a good girl, say
what he wants to hear. Yes, I say,
easy as slipping liquid into Stuart’s tea,
relief filling me the way my bed
comforts when I wake.
Yes, I say, just let me sleep.
The Last Appeal
When the telephone rang
everyone in the room froze –
the daughter, who had been exchanging
corny pick-up lines with the cameraman,
the producer who had tried distracting everyone
with boring stories and bad jokes
so the moment would seem normal.
And what – precisely – is normal
the day before your mother’s execution
When the telephone rang,
the daughter remembered the night
her husband’s rage rang
and rang when he aimed
the bat at her temple, the crash
as he smashed the receiver.
Answer it! Go on, answer it!
When the telephone rang
for the third time, the producer sprang
toward the daughter
who had been flirting with
the possibility that the call
would never come.
Answer it! Go on, answer it!
When the telephone rang
for the fourth time, the daughter drifted
toward the beige receiver, reached down
and almost touched it, but said –
I can’t.
After
No one here knows
about Mama. When asked,
I say my parents are dead.
True enough. After the execution
I borrowed money from my aunt
for gas home. My brother
rode with me, both of us smoking
unfiltered Camels, saying little.
It was what I wanted, to be left alone,
but somehow the emptiness felt
more like a burden than relief.
Even sorrow failed to fill me.
By summer, when the corn was ready
for harvest, silk tassels waving
like a promise, I took my girls,
a few clothes, and drove south.
I didn’t stop until I saw palm trees
and beaches. What I craved
was something constant, even
if only a season. The girls stopped
asking about Grandma. I stopped trying
to make sense out of what Mama did.
What I’ve got here is a little house,
promotion to manager last week,
and a few friends who call me
Carolina, because of the way I talk.
I guess you could say I got away
and never left.
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