Elizabeth Howard
Hate CrimeIf you, man, decide you are
Belittled or less or your mama just Didn’t love you enough or she Went to work too many hours a week and left you in your diapers on the Daycare linoleum crying out no no no no and walked away So cold, if you, man, thought (well it wasn’t really so much a Thought as stream of conscious journey from that early Anxious gnawing of cast off and No good and not seen, and then, of course The mean girls tittering behind their hands in the Lunchroom while ate that Smelly sandwich she packed for you), if, man, You choose not to Look up Out the door at Mother’s bright day and the gift of Any moment: that invisible ability to Just breathe, to Feel your goddamn heart beating, Flesh and breath given no Thanks to her; then, man, when you Unpack yourself from the cave of Blame, of arrow-driving fault —all her fault she Never really loved me — and now that girl and another and That one also passing on her bike Owes me. IF, if you, have arrived there, One lilac-scented spring day while Cool breezes pull themselves up again and again Off the surf -- if, man, you are there, and this is where you have Arrived after the habit of glancing only Out the corner of your eye your Whole wasted life then Then, then, man, the only response is to label your Massacre A Hate crime. Because Instead of saying: I was crying and a stranger had to comfort me, so thank you so much (invisible Under-paid, stressed-out care worker and her wide-open Arms), instead you rip the lilacs out at the root and Hack holes in the playground ball and cry out: No mommy no. You left me and I hate you and you never loved me You never did anything good for me and I will Make You All Pay. bag dragon, Larrythisistheterrorofme. thisisfearansweringwhenhonestypokes. thisismygutchurningwhichisstrictjlyemotionalbutconvergeswiththe
physicalandbecomes: no sleep reflux screaming at my husbands deep quietness inside that is not stillness but heart tundra. thisisfearsayingnoyoucan't thisisfearsayingyou'renogood thisisbagdragging,exceptthebagisnownamedLarryandit'snowthisdragon ofdisgustwhoknowseverythingI'veeverdone. Larryusesitallagainstme.Somuchsothathechangesperceptiontoo--looksoflovefromfriendschange--becomesneersbeforemyeeyes. Hush--thankgodLarrydoesn'tknowyouarehere.Hestowsawayinthepauses.Breaks inthedayaremomentsofweakness.LarryclimbsthroughandthatsleepI missedbecomeshim:bagdragon,Larry |
BambooAll the soldiers boys wanted to
Dance with you. So lonely in the sway Their replaying the pounding Meteorite strikes to the beat; They have to Deposit their horror somewhere. You With your whisper Smiles: your silence Could take it, could take the Weight, could bend under their Need, and you, being Weed to your own yet Exotic in this soil: Flourish. Etta crackles under the needle, A stuffed uniform lays across you. You don't relent yet give in. The boy brings you home and A love affair grows Stranger. Native women can't Hate you. They want to be you: A lithe figure bending At the clothesline. Over coffee You remind them Bamboo is just another prairie grass And anyway, didn't we All have our orders To prop them up? Probably Old PeopleProbably old
People with their Hangdog skin Seem so forlorn Because they haven’t Talked to their Mama in oh so long Dear AbbyI just wanted to say that I'm
Glad (tho' that's not quite the right Sentiment) that you called me Today and blubbered all over the Mouthpiece about Helen and Your weekend, and all the woes of Sisterhood that little change even Though we're older now. I mean, I just Wanted to say thanks, because even Though you wouldn't have known Anything about this, I really needed For someone else to lean on Me, for a change, to say "I'm glad you're My friend and I trust you with my Raw places." A friend needs both turns: Being the wet windy day And the placid sea. |
|
.
|
Ode to Marlon GibsonMarlon, your mama and Jane Fonda and
The angels of babies with heart murmurs and Baubo, humor’s goddess, have all gotten together To decide how best to celebrate You. Not with a feast. Not with Dionysian debauchery, or some hallowed String of days in which men carry wives or Gas stoves in competition. Marlon, the women have Gotten together not to carve your Name in some rock or hard place. Instead They have taken your laughter like Stardust and sprinkled it on the Soil. They have sown the crops into Your perseverance and think to wait, wait, Spinning the golden hay of summer in their Dreams while the seed pods Germinate. Marlon, the women press the Clouds into service and wring from them their Sweat. The mill stone wears itself out as miles of Water tumbles away. Then, rest. Under Winter’s cover and Time, slowly passing, Marlon, until some Mythological morning breaks and Eyes squint upon a jade and chartreuse Landscape and you, The season coming, later Than expected, right at the Hour due, and more perfectly Than imagined. |
