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Elizabeth Howard


Hate Crime

If 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, Larry

thisistheterrorofme. 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

Picture


Read a profile of Elizabeth Howard     

Bamboo

All 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 People

Probably old
People with their
Hangdog skin
Seem so forlorn
Because they haven’t
Talked to their
Mama in oh so long

Dear Abby

I 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 Gibson

Marlon, 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.

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