Brenda Sutton Rose Quotes

Authors: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
Categories: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
With red clay between my toes, and the sun setting over my head, the ghost of my mother blows in, riding on a honeysuckle breeze, oh lord, riding on a honeysuckle breeze.

-Brenda Sutton Rose
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Cite

APA
Brenda Sutton Rose Quotes. (n.d.). Jar of Quotes. Retrieved , from JarofQuotes.com Web site: https://www.jarofquotes.com/view.php?id=with-red-clay-between-my-toes-sun-setting-over-my-head-ghost-my-mother-blows-in-riding-on-honeysuckle-breeze-oh-lord-riding-on-honeysuckle-breeze-brenda-sutton-rose

Chicago
Brenda Sutton Rose Quotes. Jar of Quotes, 2019. https://www.jarofquotes.com/view.php?id=with-red-clay-between-my-toes-sun-setting-over-my-head-ghost-my-mother-blows-in-riding-on-honeysuckle-breeze-oh-lord-riding-on-honeysuckle-breeze-brenda-sutton-rose, accessed .

MLA
"Brenda Sutton Rose Quotes." Jar of Quotes, 2019. . https://www.jarofquotes.com/view.php?id=with-red-clay-between-my-toes-sun-setting-over-my-head-ghost-my-mother-blows-in-riding-on-honeysuckle-breeze-oh-lord-riding-on-honeysuckle-breeze-brenda-sutton-rose

Related Quotes
STAINS With red clay between my toes, and the sun setting over my head, the ghost of my mother blows in, riding on a honeysuckle breeze, oh lord, riding on a honeysuckle breeze. Her teeth, the keys of a piano. I play her grinning ivory notes with cadenced fumbling fingers, splattered with paint, textured with scars. A song rises up from the belly of my past and rocks me in the bosom of buried memories. My mama's dress bears the stains of her life: blueberries, blood, bleach, and breast milk; She cradles in her arms a lifetime of love and sorrow; Its brilliance nearly blinds me. My fingers tire, as though I've played this song for years. The tune swells red, dying around the edges of a setting sun. A magnolia breeze blows in strong, a heavenly taxi sent to carry my mother home. She will not say goodbye. For there is no truth in spoken farewells. I am pregnant with a poem, my life lost in its stanzas. My mama steps out of her dress and drops it, an inheritance falling to my feet. She stands alone: bathed, blooming, burdened with nothing of this world. Her body is naked and beautiful, her wings gray and scorched, her brown eyes piercing the brown of mine. I watch her departure, her flapping wings: She doesn't look back, not even once, not even to whisper my name: Brenda. I lick the teeth of my piano mouth. With a painter's hands, with a writer's hands with rusty wrinkled hands, with hands soaked in the joys, the sorrows, the spills of my mother's life, I pick up eighty-one years of stains And pull her dress over my head. Her stains look good on me.

Brenda Sutton Rose
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