Two Poems

by Cami Rumble

Aunt Mindee

When you told her
she had big hands and deep-set eyes
you were talking to
a niece in the bathtub,
and you might have been nervous
or unsure of her sober face.

You probably had no idea
that little girl grew up
to be a woman who sits on her hands,
balls them up tight while she waits,
hates undressing in front of anyone.

You’d never say those words to an adult
but somehow
they were okay to say to a child
desperately looking up
to form an idea of herself.
To you the words were feathers
and to her, lashes
from the yet-unfamiliar whip
of loveless leaden opinion.

You’ve probably forgotten that child ever existed
but she still recalls
your bright lacquered nails,
the hard shine of your laughter,
and sitting naked in the bathtub before you.

---

The Wasp

I crushed the creature that stung me,
from sleeve to grass
and, without thinking, shoe;

black-and-yellow crunch
in swift retribution
before I even applied a thought

to why it existed,
though I stood in its shady home
and considered myself correct

to stamp out the pain
that was just there, existing,
for another purpose entirely.