so many more to post -- here is my digital finger in the dam of poems i need to upload

"And I'll be your english friend" John says
his voice makes the air, so brittle and so cold, mold into a vapour.

"Do you know anything about London? What if he asks where you are from?"
her tone stutters like a car that won't turn over.

"I'll say 'you know, where the bridges fell?'"
her cheeks glow more pale in the dim street lamp lit sidewalk.

"What do you care anyway? It will sound just as realistic as your accent does when you're..."
the laugh punches them both first in the back of their throats before catching sound.

"In bed!" they raor together clutching coated shoulders and tumbling up iced stairs.

Terricloth Closing.

I got a splinter that morning
because i was nervouse
running my fingers into the tiny intricate grooves
you hadn't put finnish on the table yet.
it was freshly cut, still raw bleeding pine.

you wore chrisp starch linens,
the curly bits of your chest hair
catching and releasing the v neck collar of your shirt.
"swweeeetheart" the words: a tourtis escaping from prison.

there was not a drop of coffee left
but i put the chipped china cup to my lips
to catch the mantra from spilling out onto the table,
"i am not ready for this conversation"

you became a johny cash concert
singing your blues without remorse or recourse.
you could say the word i never said,
my mother never said, my family never said:
"divorce."

i reknotted my robe over and over
making sure it closed tightly
i couldn't let you see your
marching band of declaration stoming on my insides.

your eyes retreated to the newspaper, the local section
with the picture of Council-Woman Freeman
her left arm raised proud with a glass of milk,
toasting the patrons who voted her into office.


...

barnes & nobles

we were total opposites from the get go.
you had one book.
i carried a mountains worth, like gus from cinderella, balancing the tall stack under my chin.
the coffe bar was elevated, some higher plane of javaness than the rest of the store and patrons.
i saw your face through the slats my hands grasping for just one more paperback.

were you looking at me?
hard to say.
i carefully found the steps with my feet and joined your java hut.
my table married to the trash bin but all the better to see you from.

the butch on your left turned out to be your son, or is it grandson?
he left while you read feing shui.
i thought, i could find you a better book. i've read that one and it's no good.
i thought about foraging the store to find one.
but instead i watched until you watched.
i blushed until you blushed.
i caught you until you caught me.

while you were bent below the table tying your lace, the smallest bit of hair flowing down and brushing the brim of your nose, your son's nose, your grandson's nose.
i could see your long delicate fingers maneuver the lace like plucking strings of a guitar, i followed the hair line crack from a smile down the length of your cheek.
it was a lovley view.

when your husband, or is it exhusband, or baby daddy
appeared infront of you
i smiled openly and stared without abaondon.
what could you do? look back and blow your cover?

when you rose to follow him into the endless stacks of books
you paused a bit long too beside my table.
too close for me to look directly
and blow my cover.
my hands balancing the book of andrienne rich poetry chuckled
"it would have been good"

while your eyes traced the outline of my face
i continued to stare down the words on my page
all seemingly wishpering
"go back to being yourself: a mother, or grandmother, or wife."


...

"honey really, i don't know why you two don't get along. you are so alike"

have you even seen two women fight in public?
no, i don't mean women fighting in the wwf ring...
in public, with other people whom they respect.
just that one single woman
in her group
that is all it takes to sour.

but it is magical to see them attack.

one smiles widley, revealing razor sharp fangs, and catipultes a compliment at the other.
poor compliment, who was merely biding his time in the pool that other guests often go fishing in, where he would have had a happy home in a malnurished ego.
instead, he is shot like a cannon into the cavity of the other woman. his belly roasted on her simmering skillot, his facial hair singed off.

the counter attack takes skill to be done to prefection. the loud unashamed laugh. it has to be equal parts audibal threat and pitty laughter. it has to be loud enough so that her ears will surley melt morbidly interanlly
yet quiet enough that the guests notice nothing of unease.

a break in the action. both sides retreating for reinforcements
moments of conversation. rest easily for a few moments. after a few more moments it appears that all is well.
A cease fire.

or is it?
the peace aggreement disrupted by dropping a name into the conversation.

the agressive hand hold, usually one hand but look out if she grabs both, and if she shakes the hands in air...well lets hope you're family knows you love them.

and the laughter, a potent mix of gun powdery disdain, "he was my college mate"

the light pat of the back or perhaps head, depending on the carnage so far, "oh is he really that old?"

look for it at your next gathering, you may be surprised that you're girlfriend and your sister really dont "just love" one another.


...

Take your Rings off

back seat of my mothers sedan, arm draped around a turkey.
a dead one. no head, no feet, no signature double chin that defines a turkey as such.
a beakless wonder, that smushes and ozzes between my thumb and its plastic parka.
i whomp my palm against it's breast in time with 'pretty woman.'
the sound hitting the air like a wet towel against tiled floor.

i bet she was a damn foxy bird. she had the jowls to make all the other chicklets jealous. her refined beak of purplish indigo that made the rest whisper, "do you think she's had work done?" and "i heard she's part quail." her tufted peach fuzz atop her head looked regal in the summer sun against the younger birds stubble. she flirted with the farm hands, unfolding her dazzling swan white feathers only for Charley.

i saw his mother while i leaned over the freezer full of them. i reached for her, the 19 pound stunner of a bird, my ass on display for all of stop-n-shop. "well hello there!"
the Barbara Streisand daggers clawing across the mass grave of turkeys. What was she doing in the frozen meat section? her husband was a granola man, it was faux turkey for the fitzpatricks. she was fondling my bird, "so lovely to see you out" her mouth forming words heavy with Italian jersey vowels that screamed, "i married the Irishman" and "you were a damn fool to leave my son."

smiling i scooped up my bird and balanced the beast on a propped up knee. she seemed to unhinge her brown lip lined mouth to speak again but i felt desire from the dinde in my arms. desire to escape the mass graves of turkeys and relationships and boyfriends moms.
"happy Thanksgiving" i snapped, shuttling towards the check out line.

unpacking the rest of the holiday riff and uncorking a bottle of red. curling up to a new book while an apple pie backed in the oven. the bird perched in the sink, her legs peaking out just beyond the lip. singing dean martin to her all the while.

"take your rings off" my mother warns me while i watch her pry the legs open and nod towards the cavern ripe with indecency. i reach into the abyss that is damp and barren except for the bagged guts. vacuum sealed. such order to her ending. i can almost hear her cluck to me reassuringly, "it's ok, where i'm going is someplace warm, i'm moving on"

tossing her heart into the tall trash can below the sink i whisper "me too...me too"


...