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Poetry - Selections from The White Crow v2, i3 - Osric Publishing (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.) Olestra (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 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 Oscar night Somewhere, 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 Great Grandmother I 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. II 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. III While winds warm as pheasant blood Scattered October Against evening rooms of blue curtains, She reached into her shadow And was seen no more. IV 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 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 Last updated 05.05.2001 |