by Pilar Stewart
Texas is hot red dirt plastered hard and dry heat rattling. Linda remembers seeing rattlesnakes—ripe poison huddled with her in the storm cellar; it was a choice between the snake and the storm. She talks of Baptist ministers, sweat stained collars, heavy hand on the Bible, speaking of damnation. In Texas hell could be believed; a child would burn the soles of her feet walking this land. You wonder: What could such a land nurture and what would it choose to let grow? In this flat, hard place women are soft-drawled, demure, plump— but hard wire behind the eyes. Linda rebelled, grew angular thin with soft, clear eyes. You imagine them sweeping the horizon creating trees and hills. And from her hands grew paintings, soft exposures of lush blue that wash over your eyes and satisfy like cold water. And always she paints angels— angular angels— in a lush land walking barefoot.
Pilar Stewart is an English major from Hamden, Connecticut. Her poetry has previously appeared in Inscape.