Poetry Night

Friday, April 18, 7:30 p.m.
MPBC Cornwell Center

CFJ’s first Poetry Night was held in March 2006. Local writer Peg Robarchek came to the event with nothing more than a notion that it would be fun to watch others perform. She did not have a keen interest in poetry, and had not written a word of it since her undergraduate days many years before. As the evening unfolded, she felt herself being drawn deeply into the individual performances as well as the collective energy that was present. At the evening’s conclusion, Peg felt so inspired that she dashed out to her car and wrote a poem right after the meeting. The Sacred Space... was the result of this. In the ensuing months, Peg continued to write more poetry. One of her poems won Honorable Mention in a poetry contest at Duke University and will be published this fall. Another of Peg’s poems has been published in Kakalak 2007, an anthology of North and South Carolina poets. Peg wishes to express her gratitude to Gilda Syverson for bringing together so many talented poets and readers, and to CFJ for sponsoring these events. Contact Gilda to sign up for Poetry Night 2008 at gmsyverson@bellsouth.net or (704) 896-7774.

The Sacred Space Between Autopsy and Cremation

I want this body burned.

My sister wears make-up to cover three days of death.
Draped in a sheet in the cold room on a metal table, she
pretends not to notice that I’m stalling. Clinging. Unlike me.

I take in a brown crust of blood at the crown of her head,
marking the carved flesh, gently snugged together
and masked with a sweep of hair. A kindness to spare
me the heartache of thinking about her body maimed, cut
to Find the Reason because at forty-four years,
six months and seven days, a reason must be found.

I wanted to know the reason
all her life.

The reason for legs without muscle. A lifetime
of propelling herself through sheer force of will.
The reason her hands quit working. We all pretended
not to notice when she gave up quilting. The game
was harder to play when she could no longer hold a fork
or a sandwich, never mind a needle and thread.
I wanted a reason, too, thought God owed it to me
almost as much as my sister was owed a miracle.

I peek beneath the sheet, wanting the mysteries hidden
in the slice down her breastbone and the gray bone
of her shoulder. I scan her excavated flesh as if, like them,
I can look hard enough to find the reason.

Professionals in the death industry suggested
I reconsider spending these few minutes alone with her.
Witnessing the coroner’s dissection can be distressing.
They couldn’t know that seeing her flesh, her blood, her bone
would not be my worst memory. Not even in the top 10.
I do not love this body. I do not mourn the passing
of this body, the body that betrayed her and betrayed her
and finally did her the kindness of releasing her soul.

I want this body burned.