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Poetry - Selections from The White Crow v5, i2 - Osric Publishing (More poetry from Larsen Bowker, Walter Griffin, John Grey, and Christopher Dungey in the print version of The White Crow, available for $2.50 ppd from Osric Publishing.) On the highway in the station wagon On the highway in the station wagon, nine children packed in unruly rows, baby between parents in front. Two of us are fighting, four singing, three call at passing truck drivers to toot their horns. The baby begins to cry. I know my father's signs: jaw muscles pulsing, knuckles whitening. My stomach tightens as his large hands lift slowly from the wheel, rising like helium balloons threatening to break their thin strings. In that moment we are some planet about to leave its orbit, and I pray the hood ornament gleaming in the sun is pointed toward safety. Hands held high, my father is the maestro. Our paralyzed quiet washes over him, But he hold us, suspended for long seconds Without breath or sound Or family. - Eileen Doherty The Arrangement of Skin My Grandmother was a taxidermist. She skinned dead animals, slit their bellies and stuffed them with straw. I slept in the room with them at seven; their glass eyes looked down on me every night after the chain light was pulled. I covered my face at first but later grew used to their stare. sometimes, just before daylight, I would wake and see them all watching me: the alligators, snakes, and mounted bass and buck's head; the baby octopus floating inside the mayonnaise jar. Now, after all these years when I am out on the road by the fields, every scarecrow waves in my headlights; and when I stop at a motel by the Interstate, I always dream of a stuffed and mounted head hanging from the ceiling, while the stranger from the lounge sleeping next to me does not know my eyes do not close during the night, does not feel the prickly straw against her naked back. - Walter Griffin Coney Island Beach People Still Life On the beach, in the center of a ring of people looking down is a woman whose neck is bent back, eyes rolled all the way inside, thin blue lips touching the lips of the lifeguard, pinching her nose closed, breathing in, short deep breaths, unaware of everything around him but the woman turning cold beneath him. At the edge of the circle a young girl and her brother are tightly holding hands, tears in the corners of their eyes; they know what is happening and what it will mean. - Alan Catlin Man in the Hathaway Shirt I want the shirt off his back. To have that eye patched air of mystery— I want to fill the shirt's contours make a home in those square shoulders wallow in the narrow waist. My craned neck starched and collared snapped into shape. And what I am I will keep close just out of sight in my breast pocket. - Doug Holder First Time We were thirteen, freshly scrubbed, sleeping in the guest room on his uncle's farm. It was a magnificent bed. Four thick oval posts tended something phallic everywhere we turned. It started with kisses. We decided to practice the French kind, in case we ever met a girl. But the moment our tongues teased one another, our eyes closed and we fell into the open places between us. We became one delicious surprise after another, vocal chord deep in hunger. - Christopher Thomas Last updated 09.16.2001 |