Authorities Drop Hate Crime Investigation

Mourning Food

Amazing Grace

The Cure

Woman Without a Country

because you were white
because you believed
because you said the Pledge of Allegiance every school day
because your teachers and parents told you so
because the policeman was your friend
you believed
…………………………..for a very long time.

but you were raped/molested/beaten
and your boyfriend/husband couldn’t protect you or
your boyfriend/husband did it
and you had learned
…………………………..all the wrong fears:
fearing the blacks and browns
fearing the stranger
instead of your white neighbor, your white uncle,
…………………………..your self.

because you had not questioned
sometimes you could not not believe
(it wasn’t safe)

so it took a long time.

you dreamed
you dreamed new dreams
and woke up in the same place

knowing
why Cinderella has no story once she’s gained the castle
suspecting that Rapunzel
bricked up her own door.

Fun & Anxiety

……………………….1
Language rolls up and nuzzles your ankle
like a kitten sometimes made of nettles:
You’re allergic to cats.
You’re deathly allergic to nettles.

You’ve never seen a kitten roll, is it
..like a lobster roll?

Steve Martin revealed the dangers of cat juggling, the
jerk. Are stand-up comics better loved than poets?
..or just better paid?

……………………….2
People back East talk funny.
People out West talk funny.
People down South talk funny.
People up North have their mouths frozen shut.

……………………….3
You’ve learned your ABC’s — isn’t that enough?

……………………….4
You can love a brand new word, as a word,
..thanks to semiotics.

……………………….5
You took Freshman composition — isn’t that enough?

……………………….6
When you get mad you can throw
..the text appropriate to that occasion
..at the offending source:
..When Brad said, “You ought to do the dishes.” I threw Adrienne
Rich’s Dream of a Common Language. When he told me I should go
to church
..I whipped June Jordan’s Kissing God Goodbye at him. When he
told me that poetry was stupid
..I reached for Pierre Joris and Jerome Rothenberg’s Poems for
the Millennium, Vol 1.

..It laid Brad out cold.

……………………….7
You speak English — isn’t that enough?

……………………….8
Can we form a Language Police? What are the penalties for misusing
the semi-colon? the comma? What about possessives?
Shouldn’t you lose a few fingers if you make a sign “Please turn the light’s out”?

……………………….9
Didn’t Jesus speak English?

……………………….10
If language reflects and creates culture, and culture
reflects and creates language, does a train conductor
leaving NYC at 3:15 pm going 35 mph en route to DC
have a better bead on the pulse of America
than a novelist?

……………………….11
If I never voice my poem
and you read it
do you interpret it?
If you hear me read my poem
but never see it written
do you “experience a performance”?

Is writing a self-effacing act?

……………………….12
If I write a poem about blueberries
because I love blueberries
..even when I drop them on a white shirt
and I use “I”
and you hate blueberries
and you read my poem —
..even though I force you to say “I love blueberries”
you will not.
Your cool intellect may appreciate
my form, my rhythm, my sound,
and the way my line
breaks.
But you will not inhabit my poem.
Does it fail?
Did I write it to piss you off?

Why do you hate blueberries?

……………………….13
Is language all about audience?

……………………….14
In marching band
I was one of 10 flutists
in front of the drum section.

The football players would run
’till their hearts burst.

Each cell sings —
blood pushes rhythm

(womb to word).

Is every body looking for their poetry?

……………………….15
Specifically, my instinct
is to Medusa:
Cixous was right.
I am right.
The Medusa is laughing
with the Sheela-Na-Gig and the Horned God.

……………………….16
Here’s a moment.

Notes

“Woman Without a Country” was a finalist in the 2001 Sue Saniel Elkind Poetry Contest and appeared in the Fall 2002 (24:2) issue of Kalliope: A Journal of Women’ s Literature and Art.

“Fun & Anxiety” appears in Mercury Retrograde: Fried Electronics, Transport Mishaps, Snarled Communications; An Anthology of Poetry and Prose, ed. Sammy Greenspan (Boston: Kattywompus, 2013).

Tiber

I came to Rome with a lover
who held a secret he didn’t know,
his fate a whisper in a catacomb
a torn note tucked among bones.

When his sturdy legs
stumbled weak upon stones
I took him to a hospital on an island
in the Tiber River.

A place of old miracle
where the god of medicine
drew venom from snakes
mixed an elixir to thin blood
to heal the heart—
a pill on the tongue of the ailing.

After doctors found a tumor
in my lover’s brain,
I asked Panacea—the goddess of cure—
to bless him with a healing rod.

She told me to find a priest
to anoint his brow.
I was given a rosary instead,
a souvenir of her apology.

The late autumn sun
followed me home.
I unpacked his clothes
with tears that rinsed
the smell of his skin away.

One night I crossed the bridge
tucked myself between the railing,
held a space for chaos—
a pill on the tongue
of a wild churning river.

Bear Bells

It is midnight in a tent
in the mountains.
Tonight, we prepare
for backpacking in Montana—
to sleep in wild places,
smell like trees.
Yesterday
I bought bear bells
to wear on trails,
hikers say it prevents surprise—
let animals know I am here.

As my ears tune to wind,
as night animals awaken,
as a pine tree
brushes the side of our tent.
As cooking gear rattles
with a snort, then a growl,
as you wrestle in a sleeping bag—
scramble for glasses,
then find the zipper—stumble out.
And I follow your underwear
with my flashlight.

As I spot a raccoon
just beyond the tent.
As he suckles peanut butter
from a squeeze tube
beneath the tree where
we hung our food—
a rucksack
suspended in high branches.

As the raccoon sniffs the air,
tries to gauge your intent,
as you lunge at him with kayak paddle
and he lumbers away.
As I try to remember when I agreed to a trip
more rugged than romantic.

And I drug my feet then,
as you ran forward—
bought me a new backpack
and kissed me hard to seal the deal.

I hoped the trip was an opening—
that I might find a branch
that holds your wilderness
held under tooth and claw—
that you might drop your guard.

Then I would untie the knots
that hold your secrets
and I would watch them drop—
wait until dark
to stealthily explore you.

Last Rites

I didn’t recognize the priest
as he walked up the driveway
in a soccer shirt
and Adidas pants.

“Be not afraid, I’m here to give
your mother’s Last Rites.”
he said.

It was 10:30 at night.

I saw something in his eyes
as if he’d found
a fruit tree
in the desert.

As if he once arranged chairs
around a table
where he was
the main course.

And I let him in the house,
followed his prompt—
called to old saints.

Words to thatch
a nest—
a respite for her long flight
as she labored
in breath—
a rattle in the lungs.
As she primped
her wings—
found
a way out.

Einaan See Eight

….

Probably all my encounters
are existential jambalaya
—Terrance Hayes

….

long gasps of smokes
…………………….filtered through a grilled window
………….into the dark,
I was sitting at the desk, writing
stolen verses from dead writers,
when you came to my mind,
a gravel road at the end of a highway
I am proud of my weaknesses,
losing you through roiling sediments
………………………………………………..of last night.
There is always an enervating
talk of the town. Every time you and I
walk inside the door, hand in hand,
there is a man accused and arrested
for the sole crime of existing.
We took the exit early trying to avoid
the rush, faces of men and women
new to this land, walking in pilgrimage,
the green junipers in awe let them
clear their heads one at a time.
I am amazed by their patience
with a time already stolen by their
colonizers, and here I am avoiding
making eye contact. A no-man
coming from a no-man’s-land:
you say shoes’ shoe and Joshua’s
Josh
It’s that simple.
I don’t correct them sometimes.
Sometimes I am one of them.

Yellow Wallpaper Resident Alien

….

Tie my shoes, my self-portrait running for fun
in the deep woods, poisoned with the soot
of another forest fire in the distance, another Oregon

I didn’t know how to spell the states in this country
but I reached out to join your name with mine:
they learned to divide us with hyphenated schemes

Just as you are, I know how your face looked in the golden
days when our palms were covered with glue from sticking
posters of the future inside a school building with broken gate

How do you believe there is a hunger in the blissfully unaware?
The dark times don’t darken our hearts, we become just
more distant in the most oblong parallels ever visible

only the waters

….

Forecast is gloomy despite the sun breaking out in pillars of light inside this one-bedroom apartment.

I walked about two miles to get home. The guy over the counter told me I can’t have an ID until my green card application gets processed. So I am a nobody until then.

Inside the bedroom, she is in tears. HelloFresh charged her sixty-five bucks without her knowing. She was enjoying the meals and making them. It gave her a sense of power. But now it’s all radiant red spots on her face as she feels guilty, crumpled up like an open half bag of Doritos she loves so much. Red spots like red dust specked across the bagged dioramas.

So much life has been sucked out of us.

We keep giving, giving, and giving, but for some reason it’s never been enough. I close the door on her as she wants some space. I think I guess it’s all over. July 15th. My parents’ marriage anniversary, and I am losing our marriage to HelloFresh. Is it a cliche phrase? Losing a marriage? English is not my first language. But I pretend.

Isn’t everything cliched when it comes to maintaining a marriage?

We got married out of love, out of fear of losing each other. The US government wants to see how on earth it is possible to love somebody from a different land, a different language and decide to do taxes with them until death do them apart. I can see Uncle Sam’s hand inside a bag of Doritos as he watches our marriages crumble down like individual Dorito chips inside his salivating mouth.

Two point three per one thousand. From those who actually report. Imagine the number that never reports, or estrangement, or slowly falling out of love trying so hard to stick together.

We break apart but still remain close inside the mouth of our giant swallower. We lose everything. We disintegrate.

Clouds outside are coming down on us in the sweltering burst of sunburned slaps across our skin. A pandemic never ends. We welcome another earth-ender inside our ecosystem and call it quits at the dinner table. My wife keeps weeping in the bedroom. I can hear her over the sink water running aimlessly into the upturned pots and pans, as I wash them in the kitchen.

My parents stay awake hoping to see a glimpse of us together on the other side of the world. From their bent and broken bodies to a tiny screen, I get to delegate two countries, two cultures that float together like oil on water. I get agitated when I cannot explain things to them. Why are we so close but so apart at the same time? Why do these relics of crusty old societal values scare us? Can’t we too defy them as they’ve done, as their ancestors did for centuries and pretend it’s all okay?

I scrape off the leftover curry stains from a non-stick pan and rinse them with water. One crusty flake at a time. Wish it was that simple doing so when it came to our inane family values that desperately try to hold us despite resentment, despite bitterness that grows over time, unwashable, insoluble. Two cultures don’t blend in. They either exist side by side. Or one has to go.

It starts to rain finally. I can no longer hear her weeping from the bedroom. Only the waters.