Pissant
A formation of Canada Geese above
this morning, so low their shadow
grazed me, pointed me
straight to a phrase my mother
used when seeing shady politicians
on the news: Piss Ant
she’d pronounce, both syllables separately.
Piss Ant she would hiss beneath her breath
watching her second husband negotiate
our alcohol, shifting stairs most nights.
I couldn’t tell you exactly
what that phrase meant, but
the poet in me even then
appreciated her meaning.
Her cigarette dangling while
lifting another laundry basket.
Piss Ants, all of them
was the only direction her language
could take. It was the ‘50s.
Marriage was where the woman
in my mother had migrated. This
was supposed to be her South.
About the Author: S Stephanie’s poetry, fiction and book reviews and fiction have appeared in many anthologies and literary magazines such as: Birmingham Poetry Review, Café Review, Cease, Cows, Clover & Bee, Hole in the Head Review, Iowa Review, One, Rattle, St. Petersburg Review, Southern Indiana Review, The Southern Review, The Sun, Third Coast, and Turtle Island Review, She has three collections of poetry out. She holds an MFA from Vermont College of Fine Art and teaches poetry and writing on both the community and college level, works at a local hardware store, lives in Rollinsford, NH and respects cats.
You can learn more about her at her website which she rarely keeps up (apologies in advance). http://sstephanie.com/
Image Credit: Public domain image courtesy of the Biodiversity Heritage Library
As It Ought To Be 