Shut away from the magic
of music, she can no longer hear
the rising hymns she sang
with Dean and a guitar,
behind a pulpit of judgement.
She learned it all from there, how to judge.
She became a smug adjudicator
of hair, dress and image.
The appraiser of your relationship
with money, with Jesus, with me.
No fault, judged early herself,
it was fundamental to judge,
to make sure others met
impossible standards set by men
of god with nothing better to do.
They said her hat was too stylish,
sandals too small,
red lips too happy, answer too quick.
Judged to be a sinner
she strove to be a vision.
At 96, she’s judged and judging still.
Bless her heart, she tries so hard. Filters gone
she pinches the handsome caregiver’s butt.
She’s sure everyone envies her bust line,
her white locks, her smeared lipstick.
Ego and judgement intact
her salon styled hair glistens
but her red lips purse
and her paper forehead wrinkles
as she asks,
“How much was that?”
“Did you go to church?”
“Do I look okay?”
Do you love me?
Bev Fesharaki is a poet and educator. She writes because she has to try to make sense of the senseless and to make herself smile. Her work has been published on the website of the Museum of Northwest Art and in numerous journals, including Bangalore Review, Moria, Typishly, Vermillion and more. Bev lives and writes by the water in Mukilteo, Washington.
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