editor's notes

The White Crow

Poetry - Selections from The White Crow v2, i3 - Osric Publishing
(Originally published June, 1996.)

(More poetry from Denise Kramarczyk, Kerith Henderson, Joe Love, Mark Senkus, John Grey, C.D. Chase, Andrew Urbanus, Ben Ohmart, Charles Kesler, Kenneth Leonhardt, Gary Jurechka, Stepan Chapman, Teresa K. Ross, Lyn Lifshin, Peter Grimaldi, in the print version of The White Crow, available for $2.00 ppd from Osric Publishing.)

(The FDA approved "fake fat")

LISTEN OLESTRA, slender one,
pig mother, how is it you feast
remaining hollow-cheeked? Give
me your pleasure (only a small

pain). I'll refuse alfalfa sprouts
for your potato chips, your tongue
kiss. Hominy grits; yellowy
warts, I spit into the dull sink.

Who cares Olestra if you reek
or turn my bowels to pee and
dusty paprika. Our culture
is dark but for shivers of stars.

- Stephanie Dickinson

Return to Contents

cup of coffee

My father-in-law
has one cup of
instant decaf everyday, fills
the cup up
to the brim with
boiling water, adds a splash
of cream, stands at the counter,
leaning over
to sip some off the top so
it won't spill out
when he picks the cup up.
When I ask him why
he simply doesn't
fill it less full, he shrugs
and says he's
been doing it this
way his whole life.

- Michael Estabrook

Return to Contents

Oscar night

deep inside your purse,
is a phony acceptance speech
scribbled with marking pen
on a cocktail napkin
that you wrote after three whiskeys
and a half dozen cigarettes
in a dingy singles bar
on the south side of town.

- John Grey

Return to Contents

Great Grandmother


With a red bandanna
Around her head
She leaned forward
And read the Dutch Bible
To her blue parakeet.

     Like a pirate
     Tracing ways to gold
     She leaned forward.


Balanced against a wooden golf club
Turned upside down
She led her blind friend
Between rows of poppies
To the porch.

      Kittens, eyes just opened,
     Patted low lilac leaves.


While winds warm as pheasant blood
Scattered October
Against evening rooms of blue curtains,

     She reached into her shadow
     And was seen no more.


In her house years later
Among violets and delft saucers
I emptied a jar.

     Embalmed in cinnamon
     Her blue parakeet
     Dropped into my hands.

- Del Sneller

Return to Contents

For David

"He doesn't want flowers.
And no balloons," his mother said.
"And don't talk to him like he's a baby."

These were my instructions.

But there was no stopping it.
red and yellow sunflowers,
baskets of orchids
and tiny champagne grapes,
star gazers and roses,
a tree planted in Israel.

As David got smaller and smaller
further and further away,
more and more flowers came.

French tulips,
multi-colored arrangements
in baskets wrapped in English ivy
and cellophane.
Tiny notes with lavender roses
in the margins.

His bed was turned to face the window
that looked out on the backyard.
The Boganvilla
and Calilillies,
the dogs, Ollie and Hobbs,
the tomatoes and chrysanthemums.

"It's nice outside," I said,
and his breathing changed.
I looked out at the backyard too.

"He knows you're here," his mother said.
"He's squeezing my hand."

I thought of how easy it was
to make him laugh,
how he loved dry martinis,
a clean white kitchen,
weekends in Palm Springs.

I thought of how Bob & David
felt like one word,
how this disease
would cut that word in half
and I didn't know what to do
with my yellow begonias.

- Lainey Hashorva

Return to Contents

Last updated 05.05.2001