Carol Carpenter’s poems and
stories have appeared in
numerous online and print
publications, including:   
Margie, Snake Nation Review,
Neon, Georgetown Review,
Caveat Lector, Orbis, and
various anthologies, the most
recent are Not What I Expected
(Paycock Press, 2007) and Wild
Things (Outrider Press,
2008).  Her work has been
exhibited by art galleries and
produced as podcasts
(Connecticut Review and Bound
Off).  She received the Hart
Crane Memorial Award, Richard
Eberhart Prize for Poetry, the
Jean Siegel Pearson Poetry
Award, Artists Among Us Award
and others.  Formerly a
college writing instructor,
journalist and trainer, she
now devotes her time to
writing in Livonia, MI.
Carol Carpenter

Jo Ann Kincaid Hangs Undies on Her Clothesline

The Empress speaks out
against stains.  As she leans
against the rusted cyclone fence,
the Empress lectures me
about how to remove blood
from sheets, shirts, pants,
blouses, underwear,
especially
monthly blood
leaked
onto white cotton.

With my mouth full of wood
clothespins, more in my apron
pocket, I pluck a green towel,
without stains, from my basket.
I shake out the wrinkles,
snap the pin at one
end, then repeat.

The eye of the Empress
scans each towel
I hang.
The first line dips,
heavy with its wet burden.

Next comes the middle line.
My white sheets flap
in this summer wind
as if they were wings
of the great white egret
lifting off from a marsh
and becoming
a small white spot
in this blue, blue morning,
an egret soaring high
with me settled on its white-feathered back,
away from this neighborhood of women,
away from the
Empress.                                                      (New
stanza next page)

I yank my third line taut.
A gust of wind whips
the words of the Empress
along the white braided rope
and pins them there.
where they dangle like laundry
with dark stains I cannot scrub clean.

The Empress is out of words
for now.  She leaves me
alone with my Tuesday wash.

My basket is almost empty.
I hang
my cotton bras and bleached panties,
even my stretched-out girdle
on the third line, the line
the Empress will see
when she peeks out her side
kitchen window.

The Empress may even
catch me
when I clamp
my one pair
of red lace panties
to the white line
holding everything clean.




Norma Jean Retells the Story of Her Birth

Here’s how it all began
according to my mother,
the Empress,
who ought to know.

I was breech, had to be
turned around, pulled out,
umbilical cord curled
around my neck.

Should have killed me
back then, my mother,
told everyone.  Me,
her very own daughter,
resisted birth, withheld
myself from the very start.

What was a mother to do,
the Empress wailed,
when her very own daughter  
ripped her flesh,
when all she ever wanted
was a boy baby at her breast?

For seven days, I screamed
in the arms of nurses,
behind glass.  My mother
would not even look at me,
would not even nurse me
refused to name me
until a nurse gave me
her name and I was known.

At home, my mother would not
call me Norma Jean, could not bear
to speak my name.  It took one year
before my mother dropped
a pink-flowered dress over
my head and pulled.
Ruffles puffed at my neck
stiff as a noose yanked
tighter as each year passed.





The Empress Weeds Her Front Yard

I yank the yellow head right off
that dandelion.  How dare it flower
in my front yard?  Everyone
on Patton Avenue admits my lawn
sprouts greener and grows lush
despite this dreadful morning heat
that sucks up the dew and wrings
the moisture out of the heavy air.

A glance left, then right to confirm
the yellow bristles on my neighbors’ lawns,
and I see Jo Ann Kincaid naked
in her side window.  She left it open wide.
She coaxes those red panties
over her plump thighs just in time
for the Twin Pines milkman,
a good-looking guy who strolls up the drive
with two white quarts of milk in his wire basket.
I lean over in my red halter top
to give him a look at what I’ve got.

He stops, smiles, tips his hat
offers me a hand up
and grabs me fast
when I stumble.
He loses his grip
on the wire basket.

I hear the breaking glass
and watch the white milk
wash my concrete drive.
Jo Ann Kincaid rushes
over, buttoning her red-plaid blouse.
She stands too close to him
and orders an extra bottle
of cream for the secret
surprise cookies she plans to bake
just for him tomorrow morning.                 

I warned that woman
just yesterday about
the danger of open windows,
the possibility
someone could fall out.
or see in to places where
they are not wanted.

Today I demonstrate
how to remove a dandelion
permanently.

Just make sure
the knife is very sharp.
as you slice down
through grass, through dirt
and clay.  Follow the taproot down,
down to where the dandelion stretches
toward water.  Loosen the dirt
all around, then clutch
the golden head, twist
the stem and pull
until the whole fleshy root
hangs in the dry air
unable to escape
the sharp cut of death






The Empress Watches “This Is Your Life”

I do not tolerate anyone
who asks me questions
about my life.
But, I have nothing against
poking into other people’s lives.
Once a week at the same time,
I scrunch forward for a better look
at my 12” RCA television screen
nestled in the blonde console I polish
every seven days. The host shouts:
This Is YOUR Life.

The guest of honor squints
out into the audience, lost
on the big stage.  Just an average man,
probably wondering who will say
what about him.  

I could make up his life.
I could tell the true story, even the parts
most folks shove behind their backs
or under their feet where they stomp
out all those ugly secrets
they never tell anyone, ever.

Each week, I wonder who
will come forward for me,
for my life.  Who will tell
I made the beds of young women
in my father’s boarding house
as men wandered in and out
day in and day out, even my father
who whipped me
with a wet rope from the shed
or punched me with his fist
if I answered back
or refused to make beds
in rooms I did not dirty.             



Who will tell how
I hid under the house
with spiders, raccoons, cats
eager for a safe spot of  shade?
Maybe Aunt Mildred will testify
how I wrote down what I saw
in my small blue notebook I burned
when I no longer needed
its proof or protection.

Or my cousin Nettie
will squeal in the blink of an eye.
She spied on me, I know she did,
the day I stole all the money
from my father’s wallet,
from the canister filled with sugar,
from under the floorboard in the closet
where my father hid everything
that mattered.

Maybe the bus driver
will come forward.  He may confess
he drove me straight to Detroit
where he let me off at the Greyhound Station.
Of course, he will swear he was
off duty when he took me home with him,
let me stay until I found another man
who carried me new places.

In my own bungalow built after the war
I explore smaller crawl spaces
too dusty for even one breath,
too rough for my bruised knees
full of bloody splinters.  I hear voices
chant my story.

I am the Empress.
here on Patton Avenue
where no one dares ask
me for mercy.  
This is my life.






Norma Jean Inhales Deadly Fumes

The flowered plastic cape crackles,
crinkles as my mother snaps it
behind the nape of my neck.
She rakes the rat tail comb
through the tangles in my straight
brown hair.  Each plastic tooth bites
my scalp.  She winds a hunk of my hair.
around the skinniest pink rod, then
clicks the fastener.  Again and again.
So many clicks, each one a painful twist,
a promise of beauty, of curls,
and curves as round as hope.

My mother, the Empress, surveys all
the contents of the Toni home perm kit
spread out on her kitchen table like an offering.
She shoves my head backward,
over the sink where the chipped porcelain
pushes cold and sharp against my neck.
With a quick turn of her wrist,
my mother uncaps the perm developer,
the solution that breaks down
bonds that hold my hair straight.

Ammonia vapors float, settle
in my nose, drop and puddle
at the back of my throat, rise
into my sinuses while I gag,
spit, struggle against my mother’s
hands holding me in place.  I know
I am about to die.  I know.

My mother dabs solution onto every curler,
hums to cover my moans,
lets the liquid drip down my cheek,
pool in the hollow of my neck
blister my skin.  No scarf can
hide this mess of scorched
flesh.                                                    


I am woozy with visions:
Marilyn Monroe strokes my pink rollers
with her red, red nails as if she alone
will sculpture waves in my hair.  She
flicks her hand and my dirt-colored hair
grows blonde as wheat ruffled
by a slight summer breeze.  Marilyn dips
one shaft of wheat into a blue stream,
writes her curvy name across my heart.
I know now I am her twin.  Her name is mine.

A white plastic timer ticks off
the minutes until I am fully developed.
The shrill bell summons my mother,
warns her it’s time.  She
rinses out the solution,
blots and neutralizes,
freezes each strand in place
twice before the cleansing water
runs clear while she chants
wet incantations that summon the devil
who slaps my cheeks,
brings me back
once more to life.

I awake to new roles.  As Marilyn,
I am a movie star,
bigger than life and full of dreams
as my mother unsnaps each pink rod
and my hair escapes.

My mother hands me a mirror
to see myself -- the frizz of curls
I have become.