About Elea Lee

Former foster parent, adopting parent, writer, educator committed to child advocacy and providing safe places for children and abuse survivors.

Calvarium 10

I once read about a woman who believed she could dissipate 

…the clouds with her mind

but after much thought I have decided I do not want them to go

I see all their stories

As though God Himself were

Finger painting sand art

Casually insinuating angel wings here or the mirror reflection of the map of China in fluffy white

Clouds like babies come and go

Maybe they too grow up 

Go to college, stop needing us anymore as we gaze up at them snow-globed in blue sky beneath inky infinite wonder, fields of burning stars, 

Called all by name.

When words fail

Poetry or prose.  

For the last three weeks I have had hives. Still have hives.  I have sifted words in and out of how this feels and each time all words have come up short.  They do not stop the itch. Like quack doctors, snake oil salesmen, or phone-a-gypsy psychics they play at reading my palms then leave me with no…

Balm

No remedy

No salve for my slowly metamorphic 

reptilian skin.

So I threaten them with silence or just undoing their fragile orthographic pieces unbending bes and esses into straight black lines

Because from geometry we know

Lines go on forever (in either direction)

Moving away from the itchy round helpless

Woman who once loved them

Out to the ends of time and light

To the place where God 

hears our wordless

Supplications.

Apophenia

not to be confused with epiphany, apophony, or even apotheosis, you nonetheless came to me in a dream where we were improbably happy…

Sing

Rise

Lie

Bind

Feed

Bleed 

Breed

Deem

All these lingual pawns arrayed for something.  Tug of the invisible? The inconsequence of a single human life?  

Spin them out from their mother tongue

Prophesy the child

Miraculously hypothetical

Salt marsh child

So reminiscent of your most beautiful 

Sisters

Calvarium 7

After the helicopter crash I strove to get to him in time but not hard enough.  Our progress was halted for hours on the bayou highway between Lake Charles and Baton Rouge by a jack-knifed produce truck.  Seemingly no injuries besides the greens while in Alabama my father lay prone in the ICU, bandaged skull, sometimes blood seeping from the gauze dressing.

I never saw him like this.  By the time we got there he had moved on to the next thing, loosing the coils of mortality and shaking off any talk of rehabilitation.  

The undertaker told us that if we wanted to see him again in any respectable fashion (my words, not his) a hat would be required.  So we spent most of a day darting in and out of haberdasheries looking for cowboy hats.  He was a cowboy: he deserved a cowboy hat.

But the trick was size-the lingering signs of his fatal fall meant his head was swollen, maybe even still haloed in gauze?  It had to be a proper 10 gallon, XL…I had begun to think I would fail him in this final quixotic endeavor when we found an eclectic store that had beach t’s, jeans, souvenirs, and…cowboy hats.  

It was cream colored, the largest size.  They cut it in half so that it appeared to recede effortlessly nto the pillow.

Covering everything.