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"When I get a little money I buy books; and if any is left, I buy food and clothes."
---Erasmus
You Can Tell the Horse Anything by Mary A. Koncel
(Tupelo Press, 2003)
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When The Babies Find A Cat
We want the babies to pet the cat nicely. We show them how to scratch behind its ears, cuddle it in their soft, lumpy
laps. The babies pretend to try. They hold the cat beneath its front legs, hugging it tightly. But deep down, we know they're
thinking bad baby thoughts: when does a kitty learn to swim? How far can a pair of kitties be dragged by their tails? The
cat swats at them, leaps for the window sill, its back arched in a rise of gray fur. We wonder if the cat can read the babies'
minds. We've heard about natural instincts. The babies have their own. Outside, early each morning, they hid under shrubs
with thin nylon rope and a pair of sharp scissors. "Here Kitty, Kitty," the babies call, their faces beaming between thorny
branches.
Abrupt Rural by David Dodd Lee
(New Issues, 2004)
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Hickory Corners
I remember the piece of twine, how it dangled from a hole
in his boot. More hours drunk, and never mind
how hard you shook him. His eyes wandered
like desert birds while the room pivoted under the sun,
the only sound the ticking of his enormous watch. Father,
here are the photos of your childhood, in this shoebox.
I am going to place them in the furnace.
Instead I hid them in a wind nursery under the porch.
He used to produce coins out of my ear. Once, while he slept
in a surry of vomit, I stole the watch. I buried it.
I spent the next week sleeping in the barn with the horses.
The Great Apology by Mark DeCarteret
(Oyster River Press, 2001)
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Bernadette, the Saint
In stages I have waned against the backdrop of hill,
The wind-stiffened trees,
while my nerve endings shrank from the soundtrack
of locust, their plotting antennae, diabolical knees
summoning my blood, the spurred cells of compulsion
to attack.
Why is it the anointed, the blessed, are always ill?
Our bodies uncaressed, the destination of no kiss
but a trembling Spirit's which sucks free the will,
arousing more of the self with each puncture,
each escaping hiss.
Out in the distance, I am the only one made
to be taking in the meadows
all stricken with blossoms, small children, faces taut
with oxygen and the town square beyond
ecstatic with wheelchairs, robust shadows,
filling bottles from the springs
with the miracles they've bought.
And the whole time I'm resisting.
While the town feasts and plays
i eat grass and grow weaker, more selfish---
too frail now but to praise.
Add Musk Here by John Bradley
(Pavement Saw Press, 2002)
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Inextinguishable Parable
There's a hole in my left side where words on slim strips of paper slide out: indistinguishable. Sometimes it's
a word that I'm about to say: eugenics. Sometimes it's a word that I never say in public: Hoboken. My
father tells me beware of spicy foods: incommunicado. My mother insists that she knew something like this was
going to happen when the dog pooped underneath her piano: cross-pollination. I want to make love, I tell my wife,
the way the mongolians made love centuries ago: equestrian. if we keep our eyes closed the entire time, we won't
even know if a word slips out: dentifrice. And if it does, we won't be able to hear it, its skin slick with oceanic
fluids: mnemonic. We shall wear blindfolds, you and I , I tell her: cilantro. It will be so retro, so Patti
Smith, so---a humming from the slit in my side---so: paparazzi.
Stigmata Junction by Thomas Wiloch
(Naked Snake Press, 2005)
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The Passage into Manhood
There is a chair in the room and the boy sits on it. There is also a window but he doesn't look
through it. It is night and there's nothing to see anyway. Instead, he concentrates on the light bulb on the ceiling. The
light fills the room and warms his soul.
After many years the boy notices there is no door in the room. He sees, too, that it is
not really night outside. The window is bricked over. He opens his mouth to speak.
The light bulb flickers out.
The chair collapses.
In the darkness, the terrified screams announces his passage into manhood.
Sea Smoke by Louis Jenkins
(Holy Cow Press, 2004)
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The Snowman Monologues
I don't have the top hat like my ancestors...well, my predecessors, had. I've got one of these little snap-brim caps
like English motorists and golfers wear and a very nice scarf. Quite bon vivant, I think. I've had to give up the
pipe and I never drink. Still, I've got a big smile for everyone. I'm a traditionalist. I like the old songs, "White
Christmas," "Ain't Misbehavin'," "Don't Get Around Anymore," songs like that. But I try to stay up to date, try to be aware
of what's happening. I'm very concerned about global warming, for instance, but it's difficult in my field to get any real
information. And what can I do? Not that I'm complaining. I like it here; I feel at home, very much a part of the environment.
I does get lonely at times though, there are so very few women in these parts and I'm not the best looking guy around,
with my strange build and very odd nose. Sometimes I think they put my nose in the wrong place. Still, I have always
hoped that someone would come along, someone who would melt in my arms. A woman with whom I could become one. You wouldn't
guess it to look at me, but I'm a romantic. But it's getting rather late in the season for me. So, I'm inclined just to drift...I
don't have any problems getting through the night; it's the days that are so long and difficult now that spring is coming.
Oh, spring is beautiful with the new buds on the trees and the bright sunshine, but it's such a melancholy season. It causes
one to reflect...Oh, but here I go, running off at the mouth again.
Hot Popsicles by Charles Harper Webb
(University of Wisconsin Press, 2005)
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Loving A House
Sandi doesn't like Dan much, but loves his house. She comes over before he's home from work, to gaze into its window-eyes.
She wheedles her own keys. ("That's good," Dan thinks. "We're getting close.") Now she can visit
when he isn't there to interrupt as her bare feet caress the hardwood floors, as her hands linger on gleaming knobs and faucets,
as she strokes the long, smooth balustrade, and explores every chamber of this heart she adores.
Though Dan's frog-belly makes her wince, his slobbery kiss makes her shudder, the feel of him
inside her can only be adured if she is drunk or stoned, she marries him, pretending it's the house on top of her, the house
into whose ear she cries, to whom she whispers, "I love you. Good night."
How awful when, after a year of bliss, Dan wins promotion to a better town.
The "For Sale" sign in the yard pierces her heart.
She makes phone calls. She hires workmen and machines. Dan comes home with two First Class tickets,
to find wife and house gone.
"We'll move from state to state, " she mouths through the rear window of the truck that tows
her love. "We'll paint, remodel, whatever it takes."
When rain begins to fall, she climbs from the truck to the house, and as asphalt hisses by,
kisses the wet windows one by one. "it's har for me, too, Sweetheart," she whispers. "Please don't cry."
The Disappearing Letters by Carol Edelstein
(Perugia Press, 2005)
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Yellow Comb at the End of the World
Again, she says that word:
baby. Places my hand
where I can feel the
kick, my brother.
Her belly so big with him
she cannot bend
for what's dropped,
what's slipped
from her fingers
while she's trying
to make me a
neat, side part.
"pick it up,
dear, won't you?"
Never before
had I moved
for her as slowly
as I moved then
to pluck
from the blue linoleum
that comb.
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