Carol Parris Krauss
Mama kept the canning on a shelf in the corner.
Tomatoes, green beans, bread & butter pickles. Mason jars
splattered in spiderwebs. A dirt floor basement, and rickety stairs
with a quick twist at the bottom. If I got a good start,
I could gazelle sixteen risers in four giant leaps.
Use the railing like an Olympic gymnast. Swing, leap, land.
And if I was fast, no one could grab my train-trestle ankles
as I flew down the steps. That house had haints. Years
have passed, and I can still feel the breath on my neck
as I pulled the string to the lone light bulb. Reaching
and gathering the can of whatever goodness Mama requested.
Noting the graze against my calves as I bounded to safety.
When we moved, I pushed my nose against our station wagon
window, watched that haunted house fade in the distance.
Settled in with the dogs. Began to wonder what monsters might grab
my ankles as I took my first swim in the lake in front of the new house.
Mom Moves to the Nursing Home
The garage became the holding station for the articles
chosen to move with Mom to the nursing home. During
a packing break, I scaled the stairs to the attic. Pushed
past the humidity and spider webs to locate my father’s uniforms.
She was a hot blizzard when it came to breaking
down the family home. Clinging to and crying over items
such as Cool Whip containers, while giving away Granny’s crystal
to a new neighborhood family. Slowly I removed
the decorative, commemorative, and service medals
from his uniforms. Stripped and readied them to donate
to the high school ROTC chapter. Stored the medals and his name plate
in a small box lined with a square piece of cotton. Closed the lid
on the container, dropped in it my purse, and returned
to the garage to wrap and box Mason jars and Tupperware tops.
Dismal Swamp @ Dusk
In daylight, a wretched mass of wet and mangled tree carcasses. Bones scratching
warnings in the sky. Submerged souls, abandoned cars. At a knife past dusk, far worse.
The Great Dismal Swamp.
Teacher conferences were brutal. Criers, screamers, shoulder shruggers. After, I
began my trek home to a glass of wine and my easy chair. Then: a four car pile-up
right before my exit. I was roosting on the cusp of that black hole for a solid hour
listening to NPR, when I saw a flash out of the corner of my eye. An albino buck.
10-point rack. Flanks quivering. A silent stomp. And behind him–
Grendel.
Slick and yet, leathery. A pyramid spine and eight inches of talons on each foot. Gray
as the Virginia sky, with oozing eyes. Teeth jagged, shit brown. I watched him. He
watched the buck flinch and spring across four lanes of traffic of rubbernecking. No one noticed
the monster. Not as he watched his prey elude him, nor as he folded into his body
and collapsed into a hollow cypress. Ravenous. Silently waiting for his next target.
A black bear or a bobcat family passing too close. A hitchhiker between destination
and the rim of the swamp. A weary teacher changing a flat tire. Or one stuck in a traffic jam.
Unfolding from her car to take a piss on the brim of the Great Dismal Swamp.
Carol Parris Krauss enjoys using place as a vehicle for her poems’ themes. Her work is slow, new-Southern, and packed with imagery. This Clemson graduate currently lives in the Tidewater region of Virginia. Her work has been published in Susurrus, One Art, Story South, Louisiana Literature, Broadkill Review, Hastings, The South Carolina Review, Bay to Ocean Anthology, and other online and print journals. In 2018, the University of Virginia Press recognized her as a Best New Poet. Her book of poetry, Just a Spit down the Road, was published by Kelsay in 2021. She was the winner of the 2021 Eastern Shore Writers Crossroad Competition. She was selected for the 2023 Ghost City Press Micro Chapbook Series. In Spring of 2024, her chapbook , The Old Folks Call it God’s Country: Poems of the Tarheel and Palmetto States, will be published by The Poetry Box.
