Ellen J. Perry

Sonnet of Six Years

Zainab Sayed

Oh heart! Beware the haunt of something sought Beyond all reach, still trapped in begging to Be wronged—bewitched in traps of longing rot. That trap of missing something gone. In lieu Of touch, a vice-grip hold, a gummed-up rope; Of gentle, nothing but caress of coal, A mark to chase all doubt, abandoned hope— Mirage! Mirage! A curse to stain the soul. Oh heart! Can you not see that broken word, That promise left, that lie unsaid, silent swear? Oh heart! Will you not let my cry be heard, That you be free, need not this burden bear? Oh gentle thing, pray heed your loving mind— I wish you your joy, your peace, your rest you find.

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Last Chance

Ellen J. Perry

Lots of folks in the South look for signs from Jesus. They might open the Bible at a random place to find the answers or see hope in a rainbow. I take note of signs along our roads – billboards, advertisements, hand-made posters, store names, church admonishments – and write about them. Here in our region there is no shortage of such signs and, thus, good writing material. “Divorce, $189: Fast and Affordable.” “Milk Bread Soft Drinks.” “Small Town Throwdown.” “Church Pew 4 Sale.” “Body Piercing, Permanent Makeup, Fine Jewelry.” “Real Close Parking Beach and Peer.” “Dead End.” A few summers ago I was traveling from South Carolina to my home in the mountains when I noticed two signs in particular: “Peach’s” and “Last Chance.” When I stopped at the roadside stand to buy some peaches, I reflected (as English teachers do) both on the choice of punctuation and the various meanings of the phrase “last chance.” In this case the sign was, I supposed at first glance, to be read literally: “If you don’t stop here, lady, you’ll cross the North Carolina state line and won’t get another opportunity to buy these delicious golden treasures, soaked in the Southern sun.” Yet there are many other ways to interpret “last chance.” As I breathed in the sweet scent of the peaches, arranged nicely in a woven basket just like the one that my parents’ neighbors use as a manger for baby Jesus in their Nativity scene, I wondered about chances. Opportunities. Invitations. How many do we get before we hit a metaphorical state line, or some sort of Dead End? Women feel this pressure on a daily basis. “Last chance to have a baby, before your eggs reach their expiration date.” “Last chance to find love, before youth and beauty fade.” “Last chance to get going on a new

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career, before the younger crowd takes over.” “Last chance to lose those ten pounds, before menopause sets in.” “Last chance to get your kid on the right path, before he leaves home for good.” At 20 and 30, even 35, I didn’t see these signs or figured they were meant for someone else. I blazed right on by, feeling confident that there would surely be another opportunity up ahead. But now the signs are popping up everywhere. The woman selling the roadside peaches looked to be about my age, and I wanted to ask her how she felt about last chances. Did she write the words on the sign with a keen understanding of the weightier message beneath it? Maybe this was part of her marketing plan. If so, it was working. Every basket I peered into made me think of J. Alfred Prufrock’s question in the T. S. Eliot poem: “Do I dare to eat a peach?” I didn’t want to be like Prufrock – “whiny,” one of my students had called him, paralyzed and afraid to take chances – and so answered to myself: “Yes, I will buy these delectable fruits and take slow bites from them, juices pouring, like big old bites of summer freedom.” James Joyce’s Molly Bloom knew this answer well: “yes I said yes I will Yes.” Then again, Christina Rossetti recognized that the most succulent fruit might be an enticing, addictive path to destruction. “Morning and evening,” she begins, “maids heard the goblins cry: ‘Come buy our orchard fruits, come buy, come buy…bloom-downcheek’d peaches, swart-headed mulberries, wild free-born cranberries, crab-apples, dewberries, pine-apples, blackberries, apricots, strawberries – all ripe together in summer weather.’” Rossetti’s goblins lure in ripening maidens with their sensual, fruity seduction; the first bite an eager girl takes may be her last, though she has been warned by her peers: “We must not look at goblin men, we must not buy their fruits.” These timeless words become so deeply lodged in our psyches during adolescence that today’s middle-aged Southern women still hear their echo, and as a result we often pass by the various symbolic fruit stands along the road of life. It has to be a

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