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C. J. Stevens

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Member Since: Aug, 2000

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Great-uncle Crowell
by C. J. Stevens

Sunday, September 12, 2004
Not rated by the Author.
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Recent poems by C. J. Stevens
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           >> View all 45

Great-uncle Crowell slapped my face
when my marble of spittle rolled down his vest:
I was perched on the sweet-apple bough
of my mother's knee; Crowell was hooked
like a thorn to a cushion of his settee
that stood in the shade of this apple tree.


When one is five, one is srprised
that grown-ups are capable of storms -
the mountainous thunder of Crowell's voice,
and lightning splintering the knotted
pupils of my mother's eyes.


                                           And then
my uncle, who had no place to go,
took cot and bowl and a soiled vest
and fled. He went to the barn to live.
"The final insult," my mother said.
But I thought of the drooling cows; thought
of the wind slapping the faceless trees.

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Reviewed by Michelle Mills 1/9/2005
I'm speechless..."When one is five, one is surprised to find that grownups are capable of storms". Superb. Michelle
Reviewed by Dawn Richerson 9/12/2004
powerful, love the child's perspective ... what an ending.
Reviewed by Elaine Carey 9/12/2004
This is an amazing write, capturing the feelings of the child, the sensory experience, and the idiosyncrasis of the elders.
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