Two Poems by Marianne Peel



Let Tenderness Come                                                                                              

In the shank of the evening
when you slather your face
with Ivory soap. That bar that floats
in the soft water pooling in the chipped sink.

When you unhinge the strappings 
of your bra, that sigh
that sings a low supple middle C
on the belly of your cello. 

When you close your eyes
and smooth lanolin between your toes,
into the bends of your elbows, 
onto that spot where your ankle narrows.

When you slip the pale blue frock
over your unbraided hair. Let it fall down
over the soft geography of you,
the valleys vibrating.

Let tenderness come
when you find that malleable place
on my chest, that rise and fall
of flesh. The only place
you can unfurrow your forehead,
the only place your shoulders sink
way, way down.    


*



Tryst in the Pocono Mountains   


Let me steal you away.  Far and away.

Bring only a blanket, one worthy

of a spontaneous picnic.  I will share

my hiding place with you.


Wait and watch.  Remember to breathe                                

as you linger there.  Sometimes I forget

to inhale in this stream bottom space

where conifers and mixed oaks converse,

where balsam firs and paper birches

rattle soft fugues in the Appalachian winds.  


In my hamper I will ferry a sourdough loaf,

just risen from the fever of my oven. 

And bread and butter pickles in a mason jar.

Let us spread clotted cream on raisin scones

while the Earl Grey steeps in porcelain cups.


I will gather Pawpaw fruit, bells agape on the vine.

They siren a madrigal, calling me to gather

this comingling of banana and melon.

A porridge of custard pudding wrapped in a rind.

Some say the Pawpaw forest casts enchantments,

spells that conjure romance.


And I will gather a spray of forest fantasia:

calendula, dwarf blue cornflower, cosmos,

and shasta daisy.  I seek purple lupine 

for the heart of this nosegay, a sonata

in my hands. 


I will gather berries for you in the morning,

dew still soapy-slick on the leaves:  bush cherries,

gooseberries, elderberry, and lingonberries.


We will yodel for dessert, that lyrical bounce

in the cellar of the throat.  Let us softly glide

from chest voice to falsetto. I am no goatherd,

nor do I need to pacify any jittery longhorns.

I am no singing cowboy.  Mine is the blue yodel,

the folk music rising from the mountain foothills.  

I croon not across the mountains, but to you.


In August we will return to devour

moonglow pears: restless treefall,

vintage surviving fireblight.

And in September, we will forage

persimmons, so much like apricots 

in our mouths, drizzled with honey 

and a shimmer of spice. Our tongues 

aching with waiting, our lips 

ravenous with wanting.    


I will weave you a laurel of echinacea

and lance leaf coreopsis. Let me capture        

the untamed landscape of you

on my humble canvas.  

Look at me slant,

or over your shoulder,

as if you are leaving,

but never do.                                  


After teaching middle/high school English for 32 years, Marianne Peel is nurturing her own creativity. She spent three summers teaching best practices to teachers in China. She received Fulbright Awards to Nepal and Turkey. Her poetry appears in Muddy River Review, Jelly Bucket, Comstock Review, and Naugatuck River Review, among others. Marianne has received numerous honors for her work and has also won numerous awards for contests sponsored by Chicago Poets and Patrons, Florida State Poetry Association, and Michigan Poetry Society. She was commissioned to write lyrics for two songs for the Delta Community Choir in Michigan (2023). Her poetry collections are No Distance Between Us (Shadelandhouse Modern Press, 2021) and Singing is Praying Twice (Shandelandhouse Modern Press, 2024). 



home           return to poetry