Avonne Griffin was born and raised in Southern California but now lives in South Carolina with her husband and near her six children and fourteen grandchildren. She says it all boils down to: life is but a courtship for eternity.
Avonne Griffin
Imagining I'm Billy Collins' Immunologist
Before he arrives for his appointment
I look at his book again and wonder
what it might be like to write a poem
that makes one sail alone around a room.
I peruse a while to find some clues
as to the root of his condition. It is evident
by the picture on the jacket that he has allergies,
dark circles under his eyes like pedestals
holding a penetrating stare, a kind of dare
and glower that reminds me of the game
my dad and I used to play: see who
smiles
first.
His brow is bright and high, a dome
that covers an arena and likely three rings
to astound and amaze with catapult dancing,
Irish cows, and friendly lions with big paws,
warm and heavy, who jump through hoops and leave
the audience awed and nodding their applause.
What does all this really mean?
He questions the angels and finds directions
for design and consolation. Some days
begin dancing toward
and some with snow and purity, not touching,
immune. He is in tune with something good.
Perhaps he'll let me draw some blood.
The door creaks open in the outer room.
I square my shoulders ready to help,
even if I have to beat him with a hose
to find out what is really wrong with him.
Will he be subdued and dull like Whitman
who said his words were the best of him,
or will I find him standing there illuminated
in the blaze of his famous candle hat?
The Gingerbread Man
I saw you lying there with all the others,
that silly look on your face—
so proud of your brown body
baked to perfection beneath a confectioner's sun.
What frosts me is how you never change.
You look at me with arms open wide
like you know I want you, and I do, but I try
to hide. It isn't easy, this passion of mine;
it doesn't diminish with time.
I have considered maiming you,
taming you with my teeth.
When you smile at someone else
I will nibble your feet, you foolish lump
of sweet flour, and you will think it's love!
I will not stop there, I will chomp your knees
with all the finesse of a beaver in spring,
only I will holler,
"Gin-ger....!" and watch you
tumble. You think you have me
eating out of your hand, but alas,
it's more serious than that.
Have you a hat? This is coming to a head,
and you will be had, and I... I will be
satisfied, at last.
