0 Cursing the Puma

Cursing the Puma
When my great-grandmother was raising her four children,
A puma leapt on the tin roof of her homesteading shack built in a wash. I’ve heard this story before.
My great uncles tell it and tap the table,
following the puma across the roof.
My uncle Clay strikes the ceiling
With an imaginary shovel handle and yells, “Go, Scat!”
A percussive prayer every year for an absent father
Who should have stopped drinking and been home.
“Scat!” the grandchildren echo.
In the shack, the door was a trade blanket;
The roof rusted soft. My great-grandmother saw danger
Everywhere and it was. She crouched, swaying from thigh to thigh
Holding my grandmother to her back, and my great aunt to her chest.
My uncles show us how she looked, every year, at this table,
One arm stretched behind like a wing, the other an invitation to dance.
My grandmother is tracing her fingers on the white damask tablecloth.
My great aunt leaves to fetch my uncles more beer.
Fifty years later, my uncles believe
You can chase a puma from the roof with right living.
They pour their beer sideways slowly into tall glasses and ask for a coaster.
My great Uncle Arle’s shoulders twitch as the puma leaps off.
The tin roof lifts a few inches; sunlight seeps onto the shack walls.
As we clear the table, my uncles hold their chins.
“Elbows on the table,” my son whispers to me.
My great -grandmother gathers the dirty forks.
“We were helpless, but Momma was brave. The puma smelt it.
She never once, not once, did she speak a swear word, “ Arle says.
He means we do and often and not for much. My great grandmother
Brings in the coffee cups, turning each, just so,
The handles as ears to the white dessert plates full of pie.

Cynthia E., 50