2006 - Vol. 3, Issue 7

"You Ask Why I Keep Cats"

when my body's already trashed
cuz the cats don't care
i say   the cats
don't care if i can't make it
to work   if i haven't taken
my medication   washed
a dish in ten weeks   the cats
don't care   scrabbling onto my lap
they don't ask if i'm contagious
they nap in my lap or knead
my breasts   i lie on my back
all day and the cats don't care
while i'm fevered   never leaving
the house  they bask
in my heat  on the couch  not caring
to ask   how are you today
do you need anything
if i'm having a relapse they still scratch
at the door and caterwaul 'til their bowls
are filled to recoil at my stink or hiss 
of the oxygen tank
is not their nature   they blink
and show me their bellies
whether or not my hair is combed
they don't drop
by   or out       like people do 
if i never recover 
the cats don't care

"Gravity Takes Flight"

I heard a bird fall once. There was a thud
while I stood in the kitchen cooking peas, the squeak
of beak and skull meeting glass, then silence.
By the time I pushed outside its eyes were fixed,
lids clicked into crescent slits like slices of wind,
feathers too stunned to flutter.

I've been told birds' bones are hollow; that's why
they fly. A weight fills my limbs, keeps me trundled
to this bed. A dense element enter my body,
like lead solder — a poison vapor while hot,
a metal millstone when cold. Even as I cool, the cast
setting inside me, I defy this ponderous illness.

Remember the penguins, those birds bound below
the horizon? Rolling on gray frozen snow, truncated
wings hanging like deflated tires — are they truly flightless?
Penguins dive beneath the seas to unleash their speed. Their bones
flow with syrup, a liquid smooth and sweet
aiding in slicing through the water, sluicing below the floes.

I would live in the Antarctic, if that's what it took
to be set free of stillness. At the bottom of the world,
where the air is thin, I'd blow good–bye to gravity
and swing into that slipstream, unfurling in the wake
of my weightlessness skimming, oxygen singing
through me, with no more effort than falling from the sky.

"Poetry Reading"

Well, I might as well just strip naked
up here at the podium
and hand you a speculum.
Poetry is not autobiography
I like to explain. Writing is art.

This piece I am about to read
has nothing to do with me
except my mind cooked it up
and is now serving it to you
in a French maid's outfit.

It's not my clothes
revealing too much skin
that's the sticking point. It's this
voluptuous brain, shivering up here
in its intellectual bra and panties.

"Grooming the Dog"

for Jersey

Pulling this comb
through your coat I remember Mom
pulling the brush
through snarls
the mornings after
I rocked myself to sleep —
the tangles wild, jammed
like bird nests
to the back of my head.

Me, red with tears
my fists gripped behind my ears,
whimpering It hurts. It hurts.
And she, hissing, Hush, sit still.
Every morning the same
battle: after my tentative
smoothing, barely skimming
the light bristles over the tangles —
she brought out her comb
to finish the job.

Or, wearing a hat,
I sidled out the door,
sneaking, I thought, to school.
Now I nod my head
at how many times
she let me go, pretending
not to notice
what I couldn't see.

Your wispy hair like mine
mats against your skin
so that I must work in close
in all the tender areas
singing, kissing, letting you
wander and return.
Today, as you wince, I chirp
Oops! trying not to yank but also
needing to get the damn job
done.

Dressing for work,
Mom shook her head
and finger at me,
I hope you have four
just like you. I smirked, vowed
aloud I'd never have children
and kept my word.

Maybe this is God's joke —
here I am, splayed
on the rotting wood porch,
splinters working into my thighs,
grunting and tugging at you:
three solid feet of hair.

The miracle is, we finish.
You even hold still, stay with me.
I am learning what my mother
struggled against: What is fine
and delicate so easily turns
to knots. Unraveling softness
from turbulence
takes more patience
than I have
every day.