Robert Cooperman

Delilah Jones

“Delilah Jones was the mother of twins,
Two times over, and the rest were sins.”—“Brown-Eyed Women” (Garcia & Hunter)

Why Ma and Pa named me “Delilah”?
Maybe they foresaw how I’d lead men on,
even Gentle Jack, who I loved with a heart
full as a sack of Christmas gifts.

Before Jack, I frolicked with Clay Coulter,
as likely to do right as the Eastbound to stop
at our chicken coop.  When I started showing,
Ma accused Jack—he runs a still, so guilty
of everything—and not Clay, polite as,
“Please pass the taters,” afore he’d slip a shank in.

To appease Ma, me and Jack wed, but he got flung
into the trenches, lucky to come home when so many didn’t. 
By then Clay was long gone, after giving me Philip,
Reuben on the way, from a feller getting sent to France,
bloodhound-mournful, to end up dead, or worse:
‘til I took pity, him innocent of that luscious gift,
or so he stammered, and I almost believed him.

Jack loved all our boys equal, though our Martin’s
a heller, never able to tell what’s his from what ain’t,
and too damn good-looking for me to switch him,
and Jack never was one for whip-discipline.

Through it all, it was me, Jack, and the boys forever,
‘til that avalanche trapped me inside our shack,
all my men—‘cept Martin, in the state penitentiary—
digging furious, but I was buried under too much snow. 

I’d come back, to put a smile on all their faces,
‘specially Jack’s, but no one escapes here,
much as I pester the kind feller at the Gates,
him belly-laughing over my name.

Mom Would’ve

Mom would’ve jumped in front of
a school bus to save Jeff and me. 
But the instant she faced anyone,
even us, across a ping-pong table,
she was merciless, almost homicidal:
her serves eye-blink fast and spinning
more viciously than a Koufax curveball.

Her returns slammed back so hard,
you’d think the unoffending ball
had cursed her out, the ball approaching,
hell, exceeding the speed of light.

Men who fancied themselves
ping-pong mavens would challenge her,
scoffing, with what they thought
were sexy winks, they’d take it easy,

“On the little lady,” until they reeled away
from the table, not knowing what had hit them. 
Dad smirking at their trounced male egos:

That must’ve been how he felt the first time
she came at him so fast and hard
all he could do was use the paddle
for a shield, until she took pity
on the man she’d sized up
as the one she’d love forever.

 

Robert Cooperman's latest collection is Hell at Cock's Crow (Kelsay Books), sonnet sequence about the pirate life.