Chenille
On trips to Georgia mother bought chenille.
Swirling counterpanes, curves of peacock tails,
Are what come back to me. The ground was “real
Bright blue.” She meant enough like neon, trails
Of darker cotton fur for spread-tail sweeps
And yellow tufts up on their tasteless heads.
I cringe to think of them. The memory creeps
Back, though, explaining nightmares in our beds.
The yard was even worse. Flamingos there
On stilts were shrill in pinks, and ducks on sticks
Had wings that twirled around in sun bright air.
The final triumph, super clowning shtick,
Was scarlet canas shouting in the scene
Set in a planter like a kidney bean.