Mrs. Cannon Passes the Parthenon on Her Way Home from Work

The tree limbs are black and bare. They spider the concrete aggregate

of Nashville’s Parthenon. Mrs. Cannon’s limo floats

down West End. A black bear

                                               somewhere,

concrete, one paw raised as if hailing a cab, is one of the city’s seven

wonders. She forgets the others.

January.

              The creek in her front yard

is cold, rocky, gargles on

past the governor’s mansion next door. When spring comes, its water

will run clear, clean fingers through waves of sweetgrass. Ophelia.

She is Sarah Ophelia Cannon. The battered

straw bonnet, dangling $1.98 price tag, cheap ruffled dress, and scuffed Mary Janes,

left behind at the studio. Her breast prostheses

                                                                            itch, shift. The horizontals,

none of them

at the Parthenon are straight.

A slight curve in the middle gives the illusion of perfection. And the verticals,

the Doric columns, bulge widest a third of the way up.

                                                                                       Cancer. Hee Haw and How-dee.

Grinder’s Switch didn’t have cancer. No Watergate nor Vietnam neither.

But Minnie Pearl has cancer. Hard

and unforgiving as any Opry bench.

Fingering her brooch, Mrs. Cannon ponders

                                                                      the science of fundraising.

They’re gilding Athena. Gold, forty feet of her, will tower just inside

the heaviest bronze doors in the world. The Parthenon experience

will be complete. Minnie’s still looking

for a “feller.” Mrs. Cannon’s husband likes cigars.

                                                                               Charity.

The Cancer Ball. Old money can dig deep. She wants to

lie down when she gets home

                                                and dream about the best jokes she ever told.

Waiting, full-length and formal, her blue silk, the matching satin shoes.