|
I'll tell you what it's like it's like
|
It's Sara Louise for the hippie days, a tribute to Dylan and Kerouac, joints smoked lakeside, love made in tents, cars driven up to 110 on the Mass Pike traveling from Boston past Seneca Falls, way beyond, eventually the map became unnecessary no strings, no binding ties, only the continually expanding horizon and open road. Years later and they knew they would be separating as second trimester rolled over into third and my mother swelled, they tried not to argue, eyes kept downshifted, theirs was a dulled domesticity, and so it was discussed, decided: if a girl, Sara Louise, for the days of spontaneity Sara for Dylan's Sara, his Muse, his Gypsy, and Louise, Louise and her hand full of rain, all right, just near delicate. Sara Louise for the youth remembered, the wild, the good, the times now kept on a shelf as though a souvenir, a momento, like a snow-globe, brought down only on the rainiest days, the sleepless nights, fingered for a minute as the snow swirls, settles, then returned again to the shelf. Rumor had it that Sara (his muse, the scorpio-sphinx) came down one morning to breakfast to find Dylan and an Asian model eating pancakes sharing the travel section, “If you don't like it you can leave” was the explanation.
It was my father who left, taking the fake leather luggage,
a joint-custody arrangement signed easily along a dotted line,
|
|
The Ant Deity
Ants run wild at your toes, as if you are the idol
|
|
Jump cuts— (how someone grows in just one month!) You look up at me too soon Pre-ejaculatory And hopelessly immune To whatever it is the rest of us catch, Brings us back to earth, Makes us rest You are a blonde bombshell Opaque and deep-mooned Sent here by Dr. Seuss to raise hell A vegetarian who eats meat A lover of the United States A bandana-wearing, pot-smoking Potential alcoholic Skinny legs and all A liberally elated gargoyle With sailboats and steeples Spread out before you You pull down your pants To prove all music is equally ephemeral A wearer of wife beaters And hot pink running shorts European trash, Gay-sexy, masturbating saint of sorts
|
|
Oh, heck,
It's up to my neck. —Shel Silverstein |
|
Amber Torrence has a boa constrictor. I know because I have seen it. She feeds it mice. One time when I was at her house I watched her drop the white squirming mice into its mouth. She held them by their tails and they wiggled like my baby brother the time I picked him up by his leg and held him over his crib. He screamed. Amber said that sometimes the mice bite her, and she showed me the scars on her fingers.
|
|
I waited to give my condolences.
|
|
Hanging by the vines of grapes in summer thawing to the point of disenchantment tears hardened in the back of a four-wheeler the fervent marks of warm air and heated ardor the stains left by wrestlers who tackled from behind the aftermath that should have been being held in the crevices of an elbow in the arc of the neck the prompt brisk hug the rocking of the feet, indentation of toes on heavily carpeted floors. The pitifulness of the severed moment not because of expectation but because of the all-too-customary encounters with boys that only exist later on paper and in minds.
|
|
I noticed his dog looking up at me from the dirt and grime of the sidewalk. He was sitting outside a deli, where people bought pastrami and cheese and rye bread. Where I went for frozen yogurt in the summer and coffee in the winter. I paid the man hardly any notice. I only saw his dog, a german shepherd, with his fur and former greatness worn away by nights spent on the street. Beside the dog was his faithful master, bundled in blankets and with a cap pulled over his ears. I stepped around them to push the door open and enter the shop.
When I walked out of the deli, hot coffee in my hand, I heard a voice below me. “Excuse me, Miss.” I looked down at him, holding out his hand to me. “But you dropped this when you went in.” He held my keys in his left hand, and I was surprised at how clean his hand was. The palm of his hand was soft and white, his fingernails clear and shiny and evenly trimmed. I took my keys from him, grunting my thanks as I crossed the street. He lingered in my thoughts only while I checked to make sure that all my keys were there. I returned for coffee the next morning and was not surprised to find the two still there. The man smiled up at me as I walked past him and into the deli. I paused at the counter. Had I been rude? I wondered. I stood still, staring silently at the dish of egg salad. I should have been more courteous, I resolved, more polite. He had been kind. I had been unfair. I decided to fix the situation and I pushed through the door without my coffee. I smiled down at the man, looking towards his face. He seemed not to notice. “Good morning,” I said as I passed, but he did not respond. I waited to cross the street, frustrated. Maybe he was resentful because I had not responded to his smile. But I did reciprocate, I reminded myself. I greeted him, while he had not spoken to me. I continued across the street, passing various coffee shops and delis, but I had forgotten that I wanted coffee. I had done no wrong, I kept telling myself until I passed through the subway turnstile, stepped onto the train and opened my newspaper. I came back to the deli that evening for my forgotten coffee. From across the street, I noticed the man playing with his dog. They were still there. I wondered if they had left their spot all day, or if they just waited there. When I neared them, I nodded my head. “Good evening.” He said nothing. I passed into the deli, furious that the man had ignored me again. I demanded a cup of coffee and paid the clerk only after searching through my pockets for that last nickel. I hurried past the man and his dog, not wanting to offer myself again. Just as I stepped onto the pavement, I heard something from behind. A “goodbye,” maybe, but it could just as easily have been a soft cough or a deep breath. Which was it? Too deliberate to be a cough, I told myself, but probably too quiet, too hushed, to be a word either. I must have offended this man somehow. He could speak, he had spoken, but that was before my offense. I had to resolve the situation, I decided. Tomorrow I would go back to the deli and approach him directly. I would not be vague, I would thank him again for my keys and for his kindness, and all would be forgiven. I arrived at the deli, punctually, prepared for my appointment. Crossing the street, I realized that he was not there. The man was gone. His dog was also gone. I looked up and down the block, surveying the sidewalk for a man, bundled in blankets and wearing a cap over his ears. I looked for his german shepherd whose coat was worn away, but I did not see him either. |
|
Scrubbing the stain
I will it to be clean. Now a dark spot spills out Onto inches of tablecloth Behind the fresh jar of marigolds, As Morning pays a visit. First she murmurs at the sill, Prodding the shutters with her glowing fingers, Then climbs through the window, To lay a plump golden toe On my dining room carpet. She is on time (As always), Clearing the air inside this package A room so tightly wrapped in wall paper. Her lemon honey face and spiral locks ripple, As she points a long yellow index finger at my knuckles, Still clutching the dishcloth, She laughs at my struggle with the shadow, As the last sleep drips from my lids. |
|
Along surreptitious ivy lanes,
court walks, path-leaders, youth with big teeth, youth who aren't looking at you and who wear sweaters and have clean haircuts. Kids with bangs. Guys in khakis. I don't know where I fit in. and I
her and me? Fresh, frozen fish greet me on my walk. I have rock-rambled, long lanes leading through orange hay fields. It is October. The scarecrow throws its eyeball at me. I eat the turkey. With a nod to my mother. Fifteen years is long enough to wait: I eat meat for her. I have lived in putty messes of red clay huts. I have slipped down some big hill. And all I can say is, I'm two-eyed, one-stomached, breathing Hannah. And neither today, nor tomorrow will what you say matter in the light of that. Brown, green-eyed Joe. Happy, happy.
|