{"id":5996,"date":"2015-03-04T20:06:42","date_gmt":"2015-03-04T20:06:42","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.ucf.edu\/pegasus\/?p=5996&post_type=story"},"modified":"2025-04-10T13:03:06","modified_gmt":"2025-04-10T13:03:06","slug":"trouble-in-paradise","status":"publish","type":"story","link":"https:\/\/www.ucf.edu\/pegasus\/trouble-in-paradise\/","title":{"rendered":"Trouble in Paradise"},"content":{"rendered":"
Spring 2015<\/em><\/p>\n [photo id=”6211″ title=”Woodpecker-by-Matt-Saunders” alt=”Woodpecker-by-Matt-Saunders” position=”right” width=”339px”][\/photo]<\/p>\n These blinds are always open. In their veins There\u2019s nothing to say about her. She stains on like the sun in the summer solstice, tree. Can\u2019t he see that she is a temptress There\u2019s a room filled with poems she\u2019ll never know: She\u2019ll never be part of a saw palmetto He brought back to me a soft roseate We found a box, and in it, clothes that fit There was no need to turn pots upside down; From our second story bedroom, the brown will last beyond the boardwalk over scrub or an emerald fish in an open tub, I\u2019ll dance, hold his hand, even when we\u2019re old leaves of red, its white stamen, will have lulled and I threw them out. I am the one in charge to say about intruders to our yard. [divider][\/divider]<\/p>\n From<\/em> The Terrible Wife, copyright \u00a92013 Terry Ann Thaxton. Reprinted by permission of Salt Publishing.<\/em><\/p>\n Terry Ann Thaxton is an associate professor and the director of the M.F.A. in creative writing program in the Department of English. This poem appears in The Terrible Wife<\/em>, which was awarded the 2013 Florida Book Award in Poetry bronze medal. Her first book of poems, Getaway Girl<\/em>, won the 18th Annual Frederick Morgan Poetry Prize in 2011. She has also written a textbook,<\/em> Creative Writing in the Community: A Guide.<\/p>\n Illustration by Matt Saunders<\/span><\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"featured_media":6199,"template":"","categories":[],"tags":[341],"class_list":["post-5996","story","type-story","status-publish","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","tag-college-of-arts-and-humanities","issues-520","issues-spring-2015"],"yoast_head":"\nI. Open Curtain<\/h2>\n
\nFlorida is filled with grass like a tiled
\ngreen journal dotted with moss and pine
\nneedles that have fallen during the rains.<\/p>\n
\nmy garden with an unlived story, glides
\nfrom a past to our present; her words hide
\nbeneath leaves. I am jealous. But I\u2019ll hang<\/p>\n
\nlike saw palmetto buried in the woods \u2014
\na woodpecker that clings to the hollow<\/p>\n
\ninstead of an ancient and cherished book?
\nShe\u2019s a room filled with poems I\u2019ll never know.<\/p>\nII. The Setting in the Trees<\/h2>\n
\nFlorida polished green, its vines and shrubs,
\nburgundy toenails that I use to grab
\nhis back on our bed. Birds out the windows.<\/p>\n
\nthat cannot, with twenty shovels, be budged
\nnor has she stood with him at dusk on mud
\nflats, watching geese that left behind the snow.<\/p>\n
\nspoonbill feather from the marsh, a bouquet
\nof weeds from the roadside of his hometown.<\/p>\n
\nus, we dipped our fingers into red paint,
\nwe were no longer pots turned upside down.<\/p>\nIII. The Dance<\/h2>\n
\ninstead at my window, I watched, each day
\nan oak grow, then lean, still holding blue jays,
\nand moss winked at a mating pair of owls.<\/p>\n
\nworld is a letter to not throw away,
\nand he is the warbler ready for play \u2014
\nI\u2019ll be the wren hoping that my new sound<\/p>\n
\nand beyond the pine trees that ache to crawl
\ntoward the sky. I could become a dirt road,<\/p>\n
\nor lie beneath the wild camphor tree. I\u2019ll
\ndance with him. Hold hands, even when we\u2019re old.<\/p>\nIV. Final Scene<\/h2>\n
\nwaiting in line at the store to buy cookies and milk.
\nThe arbor we built years before will
\nbe rotting. The bougainvillea, its bold<\/p>\n
\nthe pine tree to remain with us, but still
\nthe gardenia never blossomed. To kill
\nit, I mixed its dirt with women who called<\/p>\n
\nof this garden. Here were tears, oak trees fell
\nand some flowers died. There will be no more<\/p>\n
\nWe\u2019ll enclose the back porch. The only bell:
\nwoodpeckers tapping words on our front door.<\/p>\n