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ROGUES: TALES FROM THE VALLEY Barely bearing a brother's poetry In which Dawn learns the explosion may have been a gas leak Comment By Lyda Woods For the Daily Tidings DailyTidings.com By Lyda Woods For the Daily Tidings Posted Oct. 6, 2014 at 6:44 PM Updated Nov 3, 2014 at 5:52 PM By Lyda Woods For the Daily Tidings Posted Oct. 6, 2014 at 6:44 PM Updated Nov 3, 2014 at 5:52 PM » RELATED CONTENT • Episode 23: Family secret solves exploding house mystery • Episode 21: An interview with a zombie • Episode 18: Need activists? Go to a boomers' anti-establishment meeting... • Part 17: Dawn answers the call of the Rogue Sirens • Laying out the dots, looking for connections • Talking turkey: What's in a nickname? • Squeezing psyches in the aisles at Shop’n Kart • ROGUES: Tales from the Valley: Sherry and Dawn prepare for a psychodrama weekend... • Escape from the mummy like a Marx brothers' comedy • Another empty house blown up, and something smells funny • Yoga class ends with a bang, not a whimper • Sibling rivalry spices lunch, but affection sweetens it » Social News Part 3 of the fictionalized adventures of two sisters, Sherry and Dawn, one Medford-bred, the other Ashland-loving, and their adventures across the Rogue Valley. Later that night, after agonizing over my meager finances and considering getting a roommate, I heard a knock at the door. Josh stood there, bright eyes shining. He kissed me on the cheek, his mop of bronze hair flopping over his forehead. He carried a large stuffed hand, which was about 5 feet tall, in flesh colored-material with short pink fingernails. "What’s that?” I asked him.  “It’s part of the poem, sis. You’ll see.” He set it carefully on a kitchen chair.  “Is this the same poem you're performing at Dad’s funeral?” I still hoped he’d refrain from doing it at the Unitarian Church.  “Yeah, it’s called 'Scorpion Lips.' Sherry told me that you didn’t like it much, but I think you’ll like it better performed. Some poems are meant to be heard not read. Like Plath.”  I smiled, thinking that my brother was the only man I knew who could quote Sylvia Plath. As Josh prepared himself with bizarre vocal exercises, I studied him. He was muscled from working construction, tall and wiry. He had a Tom Cruise smile and attracted women of all ages with his easy charm and laser-like focus on whatever they had to say. At age 40, most would have given up on a professional acting career, but not my Josh.  “Ok, I’m ready to begin,” he said, standing in my kitchen as if he were on the Bowmer Stage.  “Go ahead.” I sat down and grabbed a pen and notebook.  “Dad oh Daddy, you told me I bowled like Frankenstein. With your stethoscope around your neck, you slapped me when I stained the sheets. Your palms were paddles and your lips, scorpions. Dad oh Daddy, John Carpenter took lessons from you but the heads on sticks were in your heart. Dad oh Daddy, I disappointed you with my 'divine slackitude,' you called it. Like Lazarus, you rose in my heart every day but finally I rose above your judgments. I transformed." Josh grabbed the stuffed hand and began waltzing, talking to the thumb. “I rebirthed myself. I said 'yes' to life, despite you.” At this point, he swung the hand around his head, barely missing some cabinets and my cat, Tarzan, who screeched, diving under my legs. Then Josh swooped around and pulled it out from between his legs, giving rebirth, I guess. “Here is my mudra of regret. Here is my mudra of forgiveness. Here is my mudra of return.” After a bit more dancing with a variety of hand gestures, he came to a neutral stance and then bowed, clutching his large prop. I had no idea how to respond. “I heard a reference to Plath’s 'Lady Lazarus.' Nice job.” I hadn’t written any notes. “My audition’s tomorrow. Come on, Dawn, I’m dying. What did you think?” “I’m always amazed by your visceral poetry, you know that. But I sometime wonder if …” “Don’t say it. You know how I feel about using my own work.” “OK, go for it. Commit all the way. Just make sure there’s room to swing that thing and that people don’t think you’re gonna throw it at them.” Tarzan jumped into my lap and hissed. “Got it. Good ideas. Thanks sis.” He started pulling his papers together. “Did you hear about that big explosion this morning, somewhere near the Y?” I asked. “Oh yeah, I did. I heard it was a foreclosed house that had a gas leak.” Josh was a volunteer firefighter and had friends at the firehouse. “Wow. That’s weird. Why was the gas on?” “Don’t know, maybe to help stage the house for clients?” “Was anyone hurt?” “Not that I know of. See you Saturday.” He stood in my doorway with the September sun setting behind him. “Ok. See you then.” I cringed, wondering how people were going to respond to "Scorpion Lips." Then I started writing an ad for a roommate. Next week: A trip to South Medford. By Lyda Woods For the Daily Tidings DailyTidings.com By Lyda Woods For the Daily Tidings Posted Oct. 6, 2014 at 6:44 PM Updated Nov 3, 2014 at 5:52 PM » Comment or view comments Reader Reaction » STAY INFORMED Email NewsLetter Sign Up Today Sign up for our newsletter and have the top headlines from your community delivered right to your inbox. Southern Oregon Directory Featured Businesses Loading... 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