She Done What She Could

by Katharine W. Osborne

STAGES

 

I was only ten, in the fifth grade,
when Mitzi and I ran away.
We were destined for center stage,
under those dazzling, shimmying lights
that whirled around a hundred pianos
and two hundred top-hatted dancers.

Aunt Bet’s discarded flapper dresses
with iridescent bugle beads that
swirled and curled in round hop-scotch
patterns were all we needed
for our Hollywood debut.

As we pedaled out of town, each hill
was a giant step up the ladder
of fame; downhill, the applause,
until darkness lowered our curtain,
canceled our dreams.

 

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SIMPLE WISHES

 

 

Long ago wishes were simple:
that I would be skinny,
have lots of boyfriends,
could play tennis well.

Later, during hectic,
sometimes horrible days
of raising a family,
wishes were still simple,
a good time at the beach,
a sick child well,
a little peace and quiet.

Now, wishing for a lover,
a companion, a hand to hold,
there is a deep under-the-skin
longing, a hunger
that grinds away at the soul,
burrowing into a bruised center,
chronic as field mice
tunneling for food.

 

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EPITAPH

 

 

Upon discovery of the grave marker
of Mary Braun, born 1821, died 1862,
I was incensed by the perceived put-down,
“She hath done what she could.”

I later found these
were Jesus’ words,
applauding the woman
who poured costly ointment
over his head.

Now I celebrate His world,
photograph Vermillion Cliffs,
Painted Deserts,
nature’s cathedrals and canyons

and hope my epitaph will read
“She poured out praise,”
or simply,
“She done what she could.”

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