ONE PIECE OR TWO

Looked up from the pan of fish
I'd been up frying until nearly 3am
to ask if she wanted one piece or two.
But before I could smile, she said
"I can't stand bitches like you,
thinking we need for you to save us."

I looked down at her two sons,
about the age of my own daughters
and back up to eyes filled with disgust,
trying to diffuse the situation
and asked if she'd prefer to get it herself.
Turned the tongs backwards & reached out,
and she slapped them out of my hand.

"See, that's exactly the shit I mean. You can't
explain yourself so you just pass it back off
to me." So often we are steeped in our
own histories and too consumed by animosity
to eat what's given to us by those
who can't see beyond what they're offering.

I thought to tell her I'd been on the receiving side
of a similar shelter food line, but there are times
when trying to identify serves only to further
divide the lines between yourself and those
who are in need

So rather than turn it back to
a story about me and what I'd been through,
I simply picked back up the tongs and said
"I'm just here to serve you, so ma'am
what will it be, one piece or two?"

She bitingly asked "why can't I have three or four?
Your fat ass planning on taking some of this home
with you?" And I thought to tell her how I'd saved up
money for weeks, went without life's pleasantries,
took food from my own freezer and
cabinets to ensure a shelter with no funds
had enough to feed everyone in the line.

But the point of servitude is not
in attempting to garner the gratitude
of the people in your line,
rather it's to give selfishly and many times
there will come no time for hugs and thanks
no photo opportunities, no warm feeling
from the community that you feel led to help.

So, again, I said "one piece or two,"
as I placed four pieces upon her plate,
whispered to her "now this is just
between me and you" and winked.


She smirked at me and took her time
to move down the line,
before she took her tray
and sat down in the corner
with her two young kings
following closely behind her.

I looked from pan up to
the next woman in line
and asked "one piece or two"
and the line moved on and on.

FOR HANNAH

Oh, Hannah,

Dearest Hannah,

blessed was your fire,

stoked though

feet of eight/

darkened block/

snuffed flame

sealed your

unconscionable fate.

I inhale the soot

which marked the spot

where once your

hands held paper.

Your splintered pencil

wrote of faith and country,

love and purpose.

I choke from the

breadth of their

enmity for you.

The sediment grows thick

with apparitions

for whom vindication

has not come, as

I struggle with breaths

acidic from decades of decay.

I am reduced to travailing,

as my lungs, my heart

digest the stench

of horrors you endured.

I want to mourn for you

with peace and reverence,

but am filled with anger

that young poet so gentle

was made martyr.

They caged you, though could not constrict your spirit,

They beat you, though each hit only served to remind you were still breathing,

They raped you, yet after grown men had torn into your youthful flesh

punishing your temple for simply being Jewish,

You mustered enough strength to stand to your feet…

let your dress gape open to shame them

as you walked the camp bruised and bleeding.

But you faltered only for fleeting moments

Before again taking in hand pencil

To write of blessings and hope,

And when they knew finally

they could not break you…

They stood you without benefit of mercy,

No counsel, no marches,

No chance for reprieve

No final countdown

No media,

As you kneeled

before uniformed soldiers/

shot you like thief,

like vagrant/

young girl at war,

unable to grasp

the impact of your existence.

In those last days of

dolor and muck,

wash and ascendance,

what name did you call

but Mother, Dearest Mother,

what God acknowledged you

Daughter, Faithful Daughter/

no calvary sky darkened/

connect undone/

words not heard,

while execution

fulfilled their plan?

Who came for you,

who came for you

while your Hebrew pen

grew lonesome

for your hand,

did no one think to aide

those decedents

who now grieve

for never having read

what more you had to say?

Who failed to rescue you,

who WAS it, Hannah?

What man lacked humanity

and let your worn shoes

be stripped from

weary ankles,

after you paced in circles,

gazing upwards towards

Adonai and Mother?

Did no one come

while ashen tears

fell upon the

blemished face of man?

Who comes for us all,

when we give life for

mission, exchange

sanctuary for mortuary?

Who will rescue OUR words,

who will hear OUR pleas

for love, for peace,

what name will

WE call, but Mother,

Dearest Mother/

when the soot

fills our lungs and our

pens write no more?

Will no one come, Hannah?

Will no one come

for us as

no one

did for you?

Hannah Senesh [Szenes], (July 17, 1921 – November 7, 1944)

May your soul rest in peace.

PLUM BLOSSOM VISION

Plum blossom vision/
fragile red amongst cold gray,
beautiful, wandering girl
pitched smile of humbled radiance/
desire to hold her gingerly in gloved hand,
but fear she will drift as flurried snow.

Scattered sunglow beam,
searching in damp scented night
for rest of ground/
bed of shade,
vanquished diety,
seeking earthen refuge.

I can not reach her.

Vulnerable in cool of breeze/
survived ache of spirit,
want to mend,
repair that which I did not cause/
wicked artifice I did not enact/
as revenant controls choice
from deep recess.

Residual questions rumble deep in eve,
hesitancy prevents her from
blooming in my presence,
prefers instead to wait for who
does not return and fails to note
the eloquence of her fragility.

Still I kneel beside bank edge,
waiting to sip sustenance from her brilliance
as amber splendor bathes us
like dancing sparkflies
in twilight fields of wet grasses.

Her yesterday pains transparent
like bands of cloud streaked blue skies,
shadows of yesterday coiling up like bands of smoke,
and I desire to ease those pulses of agony
which trouble her.

Infrequently she fails to caution my intent,
as I murmur in hushed tone,
fomenting sapphic vagary,
allowing cool breeze to release
into wind
petals of her beauty,
descending to open hand/
she allows me to cradle gently,
the plum blossom vision
that she is.

VIRGO

At 4am this morning
I was reading an
article pertaining to
astrological signs.

It stated Virgos love hard;
are loyal but prone to
desert relationships
emotionally long before
they depart from them
physically.

It seems Virgos
can't seem to form
lasting bonds.

I'd like to say that I am
not so fickle where
matters of the heart
are concerned,
but
I'm rarely concerned
with matters of the heart,
so I can not say that.

I think women who read
newspapers are sexy.

When men read
newspapers,
it doesn't seem as sexy
to me.

I love women for their
intellect. I love men who
are good fathers to their
intellectual daughters.

I really don't like cats.
And people who eat food
out of houses where cats
reside freak me out.
I don't like snakes
either.

Or Lady GaGa songs.
Or weave,
though I'm not sure how those
things are related.
I'm not sorry for my disdain,
though I apologize if
that offends you.

It's always that way with me.
I express something I don't like
and alienate those I love,
though I'm fickle and
probably wouldn't have loved
them long.

I am prone to upset
those who love me
to the point that they
hate me
long before
I've stopped loving
them.

I am more comfortable
with thinking
someone hates me
than I am with
thinking that I
might be incapable
of being in love.

I ramble when I'm
uncomfortable
with my own faults.

When I'm not rambling,
I like to drink hot tea
with milk. It makes
me feel closer to my sister.
She's a Virgo too.

The first time I fell in love
it was with Sylvia Plath.
That was before I knew
I was a Virgo.

I like to cuss.
I don't give a fuck if you
approve or not.

I dislike the heat of summer
until the first cool day of fall

arrives, then a sense of
dread fills me
at the thought of winter
arriving soon.

I will never be content for long,
or so the astrology article stated,
though today I feel
happy.

I can sense the temperature
dropping outdoors,
perhaps this happy feeling
won't last that long.

Note to self:
refrain from reading
astrological articles
at 4am.

Newspapers are
far more
attractive.

RETURNING HOME

On the black wingtips of a plane
flying eastbound in winter,
ice slowly clings to metal.

Storm clouds butting up
against the rudder,
stuttering warnings
of impending doom,
but the lift is not hindered
by the force of nature.

She is returning home.

Tombstone regrets and
posthumous amends,
her twisted thoughts
tangle like her grandmother's
necklaces which gather age
in a manila envelope
under the mattress
of her dying mother's bed.

She mumbles beginnings
of prayers she feels
obligated to speak,
but fails to complete
for lack of faith that God
recognizes her voice
or cares that she
has hours yet to fly
and only minutes to
get there in time.

Intent on delivering
goodbyes and apologies,
she travels homeward
toward the hills where
her bare feet once ran
upon the same clay earth
that soon will be hollowed out
in a pit large enough to
contain both casket
and contrition.

She closes eyes,
tears filling throat
and coating her face
like ice on wing.
She takes breath,
taps right foot slowly
to the rhythm of old song
her Mother often sang
while hanging sheets
and socks on rope clothesline
on August mornings:

"Fly the ocean
in a silver plane,
see the jungle
when it's wet with rain...
just remember
'til you're home again,
you belong to me."

Opens eyes/
overhead light reflecting in
tears which fall slowly like
the large snowflakes
dancing about the plane,
she stares into
the dark expanses
outside her window.

On the black wingtips of a plane
flying eastbound in winter,
ice slowly clings to metal.

Storm clouds butting up
against the rudder,
stuttering warnings
of impending doom,
but the lift is not hindered
by the force of nature.

She is returning home.

1984

It was was 1984.

Sitting Indian style
atop the
middle-of-the-road
hump
on Mainsteet
in small town
Illinois.

I was popping tar
like bubble wrap,
hundreds of
black circles spanning
out like grease spill blisters
under an August sun.

No shoes,
sweat leaving tracks
like spliced wires
upon my gas can red cheeks
and I was
"finding a 100 dollar bill"
happy
in a world
that was mine, alone,
to explore.

August, 1984 was
sheltered and difficult,
poor and filled with
smile inducing objects
like 25 cent bottles of
Orange Crush soda
and Vacation Bible School
and puppy love and
a sip from Bucky's
beer can and thinking
if I were nice, others
would reciprocate.

The ending of
1984 killed these
blissful moments,
slamming reality
into my core
like ribs into
bicycle handlebars,
knocking the wind
out of my lungs,
leaving me heaped
on the side of
that same road,
like the time
Chucky Bryant
picked me up
after wreck,
before he rode my bike
and a crying,
bloody-palmed
girl home.

August 1984
and he was
my temporary
hero
in a leap year
filled with pain.

I needed saved then
from that town,
that road,
that life,
myself.

My sister,
two years younger,
and I laid on the tracks
one afternoon
listening in unison
for the moaning of steel
on steel, of some distant
heaving locomotive.

We never heard that train,
but I can hear that horn
this evening/
two long, one short, one long/
approaching crossroads,
gates lowered,
lights flashing.

Move back girls,
away from tracks
just enough to feel
the breeze of passing
car upon sunburned skin
in August, 1984.

Captain Crunch,
Captain Caveman,
Oh, Captain, my Captain,
Prince and Purple Rain,
all moved me like
freight cars
on hot tracks
on afternoons
when the world
was still mine
for the exploration
in small town,
Illinois
August, 1984.

"Never again will you be capable of ordinary human feeling. Everything will be dead inside you. Never again will you be capable of love, or friendship, or joy of living, or laughter, or curiosity, or courage, or integrity. You will be hollow. We shall squeeze you empty and then we shall fill you with ourselves."

Orwellian forecast:

August, 1984.

SWALLOW

Has loving ever choked you deep
like swallows of hot cocoa,
burned you from lips to belly,
briefly sweet upon tongue,
then cooling quickly,
making you hate you took in
too much, too soon
yet left you compelled to sip
from yielding cup again
and again?

Each song we loved to
makes me hate walls,
and windows,
and you.

Alone in bed,
heart suffocated by your smile,
I hum in pitch with self-loathing,
and this love still burns me
from lips
to belly.

I hate most mornings
so I cuss the spiteful sun
until it disappears
behind buildings filled
with empty spaces.

I curse the first time I kissed you,
pressed hard against
wooden door.

Some nights I cuss often.

I am not perfect.
I hate these faults
I have adopted,
but they comfort me
when I am tortured.

But I did love you
like waking from nightmares,
like photos of the deceased
reminding us of what we've forgotten,
like laughter,
like touch,
like molten drink.

Swallowed you with abandon
held you gently,
like hot cup in hand
and I know you
remember too,
know you can not forget
the distance
from my mouth
to navel.

That was not love
nor hot drink,
but it did, at times,
quench your thirst.

You cried when the nights
ended too early,
you having pleased me
and I placed my lips
upon your tears.

It lacked the romance
I'd seen in the movies
I've forgotten the plots to.

Just felt empty,
like you drank too much of me,
left me dry.

You wet of lip
and full of my essence,
without thought to refill me.

I told you then of the time
I was 6.

Knelt my scraped,
chubby knees
upon pine needles/
hid from Mother's eyes,
whispered to the ground,

"I want the world to die,"

before I yanked cocoons
from the tree,
like the stanzas I pulled
from the inspiration
of your lips and thighs.

You failed to grasp
the connection of
moments.