Cynthia Brackett-Vincent
Spring 2008
Leaning on a Gravestone
my sister waits for me above the bones of ancestors—
Wilkins, Crofts, Hutchinsons. When I arrive
we sip coffee near our mother’s stone, talk of how
she’d have liked a Hazelnut—iced—how the ground
will be newly turned here soon; of the need for flowers
as our last Aunt lies dying. We wonder how it will be
for Uncle Dave—all his siblings gone. What we think,
but do not say, is that one of us will know some day—
perched above some stony symbol of a life—here,
alone.
Fingernail Moon
walking my neighbor’s letters down the dirt road
to her mailbox where they belong
when suddenly I realize it is just us
me, the moon, and the old stone wall
which leans in a little closer, it seems
each year to the roadside’s curve
a little bit like love, a little bit like need
while my hip screams louder
with each nuance of gravel
each boot-plod up the hill—
distance between neighbors
so close, so far. But we get there,
just me and the scurrying squirrels
intent on filling up, me
the red squirrels
the old stone wall
fingernail moon at our backs now
and the wind helping us home—
just us and as good a day
as we all may get
Over 100 of her poems have appeared in journals, a chapbook, and online. Three of her articles appear in Educators as Writers: Publishing for Personal and Professional Development (Peter Lang, 2006). She's judged poetry locally, regionally, and nationally, including Writers Digest’s annual competition. In 2007, her poems placed in New England Writers and Maine Poets Society competitions. Cynthia lives in rural Maine editing anthologies, teaching poetry writing to adults, and enjoying two monthly writing workshops. Since 1995, she’s published/edited the Aurorean poetry journal.
