The Mesmeric Quality of Crimson

after Kahlo's "Still Life: Pitihayas"

hairy, prickly, seeds painted like spirochetes
of sperm zeroed in on the ovum, a certain

calling home to a meaty center, pulp dreams,
gift-wrapped in onion skin-thick layers, one cut

will take your life, one kiss will bring you back,
what's hidden under a green leaf is (like) love,

secretive, wondrous, enough to rid the flesh
of blemish, keep away the sugar and wire

skeleton holding the scythe, sharp white
against the porous volcanic rock, heart strings

unravel, "amor", a word that leaves a bitter
aftertaste in the mouth, its gray void-like tomb.

copyright 2002 Virgil Suarez
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Iglesia

My mother calls me from Hialeah
where she lives as a widow
to say the church in our old
neighborhood in Calabazar, Cuba
finally fell. I can't remember
any church; I can't let her know
I don't know what Iglesia
she's talking about. The church,
she says, the little one we passed
on the bus each time we went
into old Havana, St. Francis
inside a fountain, dried out, cracked
cement, plaster, the splatter
of pigeon feces on his robe--that
church with the crater-sized holes
on its caved-in roof--the one people
said bats roosted in the rafters
when rain fell, showers streamed
on to the devotees who still came
to pray in darkness and wet,
la ultima iglesia that stood against
disbelief, intolerance, hatred,
all the sorrows, that church
of weeping walls, of emptiness
and broken things, that church
in the dim of memory, that church.

copyright 2002 Virgil Suarez
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Contrapuntos

How one drum answers another's beat,
a way for the hands to know the slap-
rhythm of time, dusty paths forked

through verdant jungles. A crow's flight
across a pine ridge, how one ear hears
the ping-pong of shiny pebbles skipping

off a pond's surface. How a lover writes
letters to her exiled sweetheart, a morse
code of sighs on the phone when they call

each other. A fizzle and crack of despair
crosses the great distance. Pigeons
coo on the rafters. A sparrow picks up

a straw with which to begin a nest. Light
fills the concaves of dusk while fireflies dance
in the tall grass, like embers, first fading,

then lighting again. How one heart beckons
the sound of another, a mouth, a kiss,
what the eyes never blink out of existence.

copyright 2002 Virgil Suarez
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Cigarettes and Blue Dye, No Bullets

for Marie Manilla

We sink our hands into pools of color, where
inflated chemicals create panels for
the blue to rise. At breaks, we shake our hands

hue free under scalding

water, we pulse the dye beyond ourselves and
out of the fiber and thin lines of our skin.
We don't bother with lunch, but pull out cigarettes

and light them on the line.

Filing out for breaks, we bathe in streams of fresh light
and compare the clash of tint under our nails.
Someone coughs, hands shake, we continue to smoke,

ingest tar and dyes

and never think about the plans that once ruled this air,
made us believe we could leave this West Virginia
town. Right now is who and what we are--older now,

racked by pink or

orange piss, coffee-colored spit, and a large crayon box
of colors all over our hands, wrists and arms.
We don't need bar fights with razors or guns; we

smoke, we dye, we die.

copyright 2002 Christine Delea
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Trust in Spring

For many years I learned
patience and endurance
from the drowsy trees;
when my land is locked
in frost and full of snow,
it is futile to weep;
the teardrops freeze,
the bark shrinks from the cold,
it cracks and bursts...
with every minute mounts
the blizzard; a fury
irate it tears off
what leaves remain;
the cold grips at the heart,
but they stand mutely;
like they, in silence,
I must bear my pain
and try to overcome it.
Just trust in Spring!
Its genius will spell
new warmth, new life.
In spring your soul
will be made well
for wondrous revelations.
Just trust in Spring!

copyright 2002 Michael Shcherba
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Kazakh Steppe

A sea of feather grass,
all sprayed with dewdrops
is rippling silver
in a murmurous haze.
Their pointed fur caps
crammed down on
their foreheads,
and crouched above
their flying horses' manes,
the Kazakhs gallop,
feet home in the stirrups,
and swerve around their
great flocks once again.
And, darting from beneath
the thundering hoofbeats
a startled spy, the wild
bird takes the air.
The sun burns up the crowns
of parched trees
and, for a hundred miles,
there's nothing there
but space. And from a
low hill an old shepherd
looks out across those
spacious plains.
And all around the
bird-choirs are rejoicing.

copyright 2002 Michael Shcherba
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Fisherman in Aral Sea

Every day he puts to Aral Sea for fishing
On his old and creaky sailing boat.
At the low board foamy waves are beating.
The sun of desert is so bright and hot.

A fisherman loves fresh contrary breeze,
Blowing a decayed sail and getting cold.
He is calm enough and confident with
His heather pipe and very faded coat.

When he has good catch, he often buys
Tobacco, salt, red wine and white bread.
He wants to be lucky and he tries
To find a little school for his sweep-net.

copyright 2002 Michael Shcherba
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In Milwaukee's Industrial Valley

there was always

one guy

who'd live
alone

or with his sister

he'd be at least
as old
as the bosses

but his jokes were never
as quick &

certainly
not as sharp

& there was always
a card game
at lunch

among the bosses &
their pals

who often included
sons of
city councilmen

the one guy
would ask to play

but they'd
say no

or simply
ignore him

MAYBE

if he begged enough

& one of them
had called in sick

they'd deal him
a hand

then chide him
until he'd punch

back in early
& leave
the break room

he'd always
be at his

work station
after we'd eat

but before
we'd go out there

I'd wonder
where he was

as I'd digest my
ham sandwich
& the results

of races
favorites
lost

& longshots
won going away

copyright 2002 Mark Wisniewski
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Beacon Falls

You act the injured, or the put-upon,
As if these years weren't something shared.
Thank god the children are all grown and gone:
Though I can't be, at least let them be spared.

What use is talking? We've talked it out before;
At least, you talked. I haven't much of talk.
Nobody wins by adding score on score.
There are old fissures words will never caulk.

As if these years weren't something shared!
What will you do? Will you see Sis and Ted?
Though I can't be, at least let them be spared.
"Enough's enough"? I've said what must be said.

At least, you talked. I haven't much of talk--
A yak of empty mouths in empty heads.
There are old fissures words will never caulk.
These are the moments a sane person dreads.

What will you do? Will you see Sis and Ted
Before the Journal sets us in a box?
Enough's enough: I've said what must be said.
We've managed, so far, to survive the shocks.

A yak of empty mouths in empty heads;
A curtain's lifted to watch us down the road.
These are the moments a sane person dreads,
Not the dull paper with its flimsy goad.

Before the Journal sets us in a box,
We ought to tell them--you see that, of course.
We've managed, so far, to survive the shocks,
Trapped first by marriage, and, now, it seems, divorce.

A curtain's lifted to watch us down the road.
The greatest hurt was what went unexpressed,
Not the dull paper with its flimsy goad.
The embarrassed light stubbornly moves west.

We ought to tell them. You see that, of course?
You act the injured, or the put-upon,
Trapped first by marriage, and, now, it seems, divorce.
Thank god the children are all grown and gone.

The greatest hurt was what went unexpressed.
What use is talking? We've talked it out before.
The embarrassed light stubbornly moves west;
Nobody wins by adding score on score.

copyright 2002 Stuart J. Silverman
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Letter to My Sister After Mother's Death

Dearest Barbara: It is not just that she is gone
that grieves us. It is the weight of having walked
her to the edge of life and mustering the courage
and the love to place her safely on the other side.

We could have let her suffer and die choking
and coughing and grasping for air. We chose
to lull her into euphoria with white pills and oxygen
set high enough to nudge her into dreamland.

We could have been thin skinned and selfish
and let nature take its course. We could have sent
her to a nursing home and let strangers ignore
her bell and pleas to have her back and butt rubbed.

We chose to watch every sign of stress and pain,
and blotted them out with gentle lies, soothing hugs
and drugs we claimed were breathing enhancers,
lung expanders and encouragers of hunger.

We cooked good food and fed it to her by hand.
We went without sleep and talked with her late
into the night. We rubbed her tired bones and kissed
her brow and watched for signs that would tell us

when it was time to carry her like a dying child
to the door where this life ceases to be and the next
begins without us. Unlike the others, we were not
told about the fact that our mother had died.

We made sure that her passing was free of stress,
unimpeded by fear or anxiety, unfettered by pain
and easy as drifting into a final sleep. Sometimes
I think we must grieve for ourselves as well.

copyright 2002 Fredrick Zydek
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To the Fetus in My Wife's Belly

I saw you at the doctor's office today,
floating in space.
When you become a kid in school
they will tell you that space is outside of our atmosphere,
but you've been there already.
You were like a beam floating in a bowl of broth.

At this point, we are really your god.
You drifting unaware and us planning.
I plan what boat you will sail on,
I am packing the hull with supplies.
You sleep and wake. You struggle against
a sack that you don't know exists.

Your earth feeds you and you open
and close your mouth, sucking some syrup,
soft as the inside of a grape.

At any moment
you may hear the distant vibrations
of my voice.
You notice certain hums I imagine.

As I watched you, I wonder if you felt the light
shining from the camera, did you feel
the world was ending? Does your mythology have a
knife in the heart of perpetual darkness?

Do you practice religion? Is light knowledge or death?

It's me. It's my eyes. It's a flashlight that finds you,
bringing you home to a home you've never known.

copyright 2002 Peter Davis
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The Best Thing About Your Car

Getting your car fixed is best
when it's paid for
and you've gotten a new muffler
and the oil's changed
and the fluids checked
and the spare's patched
and rotated are the tires.

It's a fine time to be alive.
Your dad's probably proud of this.
You feel organized and prepared.
You are alive as you can be. But

sooner or later it stalls on
the highway. Eventually,
there is a noise you hear.
A battery dies. A telephone call
from a restaurant lobby
to a taxi or tow is dialed with fingers
thick with desperation--a blood
pressure of thick.

The car in the lot sits
unapologetic; when you
sit in a car you're a car part.

copyright 2002 Peter Davis
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Othera's Moon

When Othera became bored as a frost-bit
stick in the woods, mama would tell her
to go outside and look at the moon.

Othera would squelch her tendency to resist
well-intentioned advice and tear out for
the dirt road that she had long given up as
being any outlet toward where her dreams
could materialize.

Othera disliked the moon, for each time
she got the outline of his white face in
focus, the rest of the old man's body would
swerve to the right and be long gone. She
could never quite catch that white man by his
lonesome with his act together. So looking
at the moon was like looking at clouds that
made their "oops" just to spite the onlooker,
for who wanted a kitten to turn into a tiger?
The Harrison brothers did, for just the thought
of being mean tasted like molasses on biscuits
to the Harrison boys, whose evil deeds had
a stickiness to them because the ugliness the
boys did made everyone's minds glue up with
anger.

The night Othera wondered what was on
the other side of the moon changed her
life, for she pictured a black child directing
an all-black choir there. The birds' chirping
into the night's air became the songs the
choir sang. Othera vowed right then and
there before God and the ants crawling up
her legs that her life would be lived on
the other side of the moon.

copyright 2002 Clair T. Feild
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morning:

i walk outside,
coffee in right hand,
apple pie in left;

a yellowjacket joins me:
yellow pinstripes, yellow face,
yellow legs, golden wings.

we talk; she leaves.
i watch her go:

she bumbles and faults:
it is cold and she is dying.

i should have shared:
a wasp's portion isn't much.

copyright 2002 Christopher Boone
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gatherers

they gather
last remains
from the garden
along the south side
of the house
parched corn
tomatoes
potatoes
slowly dying
in sunbaked graves
there is no breeze
only the gatherers
and grasshoppers
move through the garden
along the south side
of the house

copyright 2002 Deborah Mann
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somewhere unseen

evening primrose
opens silent yellow mouth

pulls thin cotton dress
above bare knees
spread apart
gasps for air

copyright 2002 Deborah Mann
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from Poor

21. Charity begins at home

Charity begins at home. For those that live in one.

22. There Are a Lot Worse Off

There are a lot more worse off than you, I am told.
But because I care about those apart from myself,
that only makes me feel worse, than before.

23. The Weather for Poverty

Poverty reminds me of things drenched:
wind chill factor, grey sky.
Never in my wildest dreams, did I associate
grey poverty with poetry.

24. Where Poverty Hides

Poverty hides in me.
It has taught me to keep it a secret,
because no one gives a fuck.
If they detect a weakness,
they are likely to give you a boot
in the arse, right over the gap.
Being poor, you are heavier,
more prone to falling.
Once you hit the ocean
your heart drops like a sinker.

Poverty rests heavily.

Trying to hold onto your dignity, where it
rests like a soft cushion beneath the heart.
With each step & with each exhalation
your dignity escapes you.
Breathe more slowly, afraid of detection.

25. Fear of the Seasons

With weather like they have here,
you need money to keep warm,
to rug up, eat more, to be indoors.
The tropics are better for the poor.

26. What Were Your Dreams:

What were your dreams?
And why did you let them go?

27. Poverty Falls on Deaf Ears

Get rid of the mirror
so that you don’t see
yourself
grow old with poverty.
Burnt out eyes, lips down
turned
the dead
weight around your neck.
Take out the mascara &
lipstick.
Put on your best disguise,
don’t cry,
sit cross legged with your
stomach
held in, so that whoever
you are visiting
doesn’t hear
the hunger pains.
Don’t tell them anything.
Poverty
falls on deaf ears.

28. The Buddhists Who Wouldn’t Feed Me

The Buddhist Institute in Melbourne wouldn’t feed me.
It was $10 a plate of food that smelt so good.
Unfortunately I couldn’t afford it. I almost wept but couldn’t.
That night after the big spiritual get together,
it took a member all of her compassion to give me a lift home.
Because it was late at night, in the dead of winter, cloudless.
I was so hungry I almost froze to death.
I felt like my insides were burning, full of frost.
My cheeks were like ice along the railway yard roofs.

29. You Don’t Know What You’re Missing Out On:

If you got money, you would probably waste a lot at first.
If blue skies appear suddenly one morning
They would be too bright for you to see specifics,
to connect with. Bird, wire, kite, air plane and cloud.

If you’ve never had them, you don’t know what you’re missing out on.
If you suddenly have it, you won’t recognize it, so it will slip past you.
When the greyness comes again, you will feel strangely comfortable.
“If someone gave me a million dollars, I wouldn’t know what to do.”
Nicki said, “You’d know what to fucking do with it all right….”

30. Poverty of the Fun Pier Shark

There was a special machine at marineland at
manly, where the carpet sharks drifted across
the concrete bottom swimming pool & all the
ocean life was so sleepy that it appeared
dead, the echo of people’s voices rippling the
water along the tired old hides, when i shot
the grey nurse shark in the machine in the
amusements section with the harpoon, i saw
the way that it twirled on the spot & the blood
spewed out like tomato sauce, nanny urged
me on, to “get him” “get him”, if you shot a
certain amount of sharks there ws a free
game, enabling you to shoot them all over
again, without inserting more money, i shot
as hard as i could standing on tip toes,
sometimes the tension was so much that i just
shot haphazardly with my eyes closed,
gripping the trigger for dear life, my stomach
nervous with the fear of not shooting enough,
even with my eyes closed, i could hear the
death toll of the sharks in the machine, as
there was strange liquid screaming noise
that came through the speaker as they twisted
into their own blood on the spot, not once in
all the years of returning to marineland did i
win a free game, but it was not for lack of
trying, i just couldn’t seem to get to a point of
winning, i was frightened inside that there
was a possibility that i would never win at
anything, i was afraid of sharks when my nan
& i caught the manly ferry back to sydney &
in the george’s river near liverpool, where
they drifted up into freshwater to eat dogs, &
along the jetty near sandy point, those long
stretches of weedy dark water beneath
riverside trees adrift with jellyfish, when my
aunty’s gold ring that my uncle brought her
fell off, & i saw it disappear into the stony
green dark floating down amongst the jelly
blubbers & sting rays, i was frightened of that
too, i was frightened of facing this kind of life
without a harpoon

copyright 2002 Coral Hull
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Classified Report

They are identified
by their drawn shades,
locked doors and wan faces
in the daylight.

What they do
when no one's looking
is no longer a guess.
Some things are known.

They stand on one leg.
This much has been seen.

The other leg is extended.
Whether fully outstretched or not
can only be surmised.

They then attempt to spin or
twirl while fixing their eyes on the ceiling.
How they place their arms has not been confirmed.

Falling is unacceptable. This bit of information
has been leaked. Why they spin and for how long
is, as yet, totally unknown. Unfortunately, we have
been unsuccessful in this regard.

It is suspected that more and more are taking up this
surreptitious activity. It is feared that soon a critical
mass will be reached.

The media will then take notice. Celebrities
will come forth. At first contrite, then defiant.
Ordinary people will follow suit.

Secret societies will meet openly; become clubs.
More will join.

Soon thereafter, entrepreneurs will manufacture and
sell special shoes; ones supple enough to provide the
foot with the grip on the floor it needs, yet smooth
enough to aid the spin without sticking.

Remember that falling is unacceptable.

Designer clothes will be sold.
Videos and self-help books will become
available for purchase.

History suggests that these markets will be sizable.

The government will be forced to grant subsidies.

Numbers will grow.
Voting blocks will form.
Politicians will be swayed.

The police are already forming special units.

copyright 2002 Russell J. Fee
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One Venetian Blind

ivory as a piano key
stained with blues
on alternate Tuesdays
at Alvin's on Cass

where Sweet William
thumped his life chord,
his fingertips blunt,
swollen with sound,
curled down. Down

past yellowed keys
slick with sweat,
past morning and night
that open-and-close death
when his heart stopped,
and he tripped

through the venetian blind,
all slats tilted
toward one perfect note

blue as the blackberry brandy
he tossed back. Neat
and clean, the kicker,
his last kick,
the bucket flying up
and out of sight
as his music kissed the wind
down the long avenue,
light flying into light.

Copyright 2002 Carol Carpenter
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Table of Contents 2002-2006

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