Poetry Feature No. 3 in Series Degrees of Apprenticeship The Sarah Lawrence Program With Introduction and Poems by Thomas Lux

~ A ~   ~ B ~   ~ C ~ Wildwood Suzanne Adler Naomi's Lament Exogamy Lorna Blake Hollow Stems Sally Bliumis The Cutting Board Laura Caldwell The Poet Michael Carman The Witch's Apprentice Tricia Chapman Psst. . . God Speaking Miles Coon

Over Drinks Yasmin Dalisay Magnolia Blade of Grass Karin de Weille 2 Corinthians 5:1 Lesleigh Forsyth Vacuum Bruce Frankel Once You Lived on the Laotian Border Patty Gordon From the Brother to the Sister:   A Crown of Letters Lisa Horner

~ . ~ . ~ Wildwood Suzanne Adler The boy out front raising a lantern was a statue. I studied his posture. My older cousin ignoring me at the Jolly Roger Motel. The fudge shop made syrup of the air. Everywhere color: ten million kites in the sky. Both eyes could not contain it. God, it's been said, is a 2-ton gorilla. The lights were so many I couldn't hold on. Ring of fire, waves disco-ing inward. You don't know how lonely our HEROINE felt. A disgruntled clown's sweat etched flesh in his makeup. She stared upward in skee-ball light— crane-o-prizes, take your chance on me. So, This was the beginning. (A loudspeaker threw out harmonized Swedes. Glitter iron-on t-shirts made to order. You should have seen everyone leaning on the rails. Their names block-lettered under their collars like dogs, and still warm from the iron, burnt rubber, stinking.) So this is what the author meant! Last of the beer. The last cigarette. ~ . ~ Naomi's Lament Lorna Blake The Lord has dealt harshly with me. (Ruth 1:21) Lord, I am swept like chaff upon the wind, I who loved you always. How have I sinned, that You withhold Your sheltering wings of care and leave me to this terrible despair, a sighing world of ashes and grey dusk? I have become nothing, an empty husk of life blown back into a house of bread, too raw and crushed with sorrow for my dead sons, buried in foreign fields that killed them, to care that all astonished Bethlehem bears witness to my dreadful guilt and shame and wonders what I can return to claim, though I begged Elimelech not to leave our barren land. What could I do but cleave to my husband? And what could I have done but watch, helpless, as one fatherless son and then his brother married a foreign wife, and weep when neither brought forth life? Now I'm returning to the home I left where no man will redeem me. I'm bereft of all my kin, bound only to a Moabite woman who walks behind me in the night. What shall I do with her? She should have stayed behind. Her oath of bondage is no aid to me. She meant it well, but we must eat; who will buy sandals for our callused feet? Along the road gleaners look at us and stare, the courtyard stirs beneath the sun's white glare; yes, look up from your work and pity me, I dare them… I entreat them… silently. God of my affliction, God of the desert, Lord who never answers, why do You hurt me, who was winsome to You once? Women, call me Mara now, who was Naomi then. ~ . Exogamy Lorna Blake When love arrives and spreads its naive gloss thick as almond icing on a wedding cake, we've only gained a mate and nothing's lost. We're counting blessings, not amortizing costs, at least not yet; as newlyweds who make a home with the Mezuzah and the Cross we boldly plan to forge our way across the complications. We have what it takes— love conquers all and the world's well lost. On holidays, the in-laws we have tossed together try to conceal their heartbreak; cloaked in advice, their words sound cross, until a granddaughter arrives, embossed with double dreams and histories that ache. We begin life's long calculus of loss as sacrifices settle like April frost on tender shoots. Not even for our sake can true love wring a gain from every loss ushered in by the Mezuzah and the Cross. ~ . ~ Hollow Stems Sally Bliumis It seemed wrong, somehow to send you flowers: long, hollow stems float coldly in a vase, closed buds open slowly to a death which speaks too clearly; too clearly I see your reflection in a large shop window, your body semi-transparent superimposed upon the display; I look through your blue cable sweater, now a veil, and I see what we both wish were inside you— not the sudden emptiness of your pink womb, or the graying butterfly winds of lung— simple rolls of wrapping paper, twisted ribbons— replaceable things. ~ . ~ The Cutting Board Laura Caldwell It would be too much to think of you as more than this, propped against my tile— an oak tree on the horizon intertwined with hemlock, fingering white pine. You, who may have brushed a slate roof, blown miles as a seed before rooting or knocked on glass for someone to look up and watch you spear a full moon. You've housed locusts, balanced nests, swung a birdhouse from your limb. Over and over you've shed the feather weight of death, kept its secret in your bole. When was all of this not enough? Now a slice of your spine sanded for use is you behind my sink, marked with a downpour of small white bones. I bring you down again and again, slide my hands along your sides. I cover you with crumbs of the earth— seeds, roots, skin. Sometimes on windy nights I look up to watch the moon captured in nets. How many times have you borne the weight of body, fruit, knife, a strand of my hair? ~ . ~ The Poet Michael Carman Hanging by a thread, I am hanging from a leaf on a tree over the dew-moist grass, dreaming of Persepolis. Behind my eyes, Alexander astride Bucephalus whips nameless hordes to overrun the palace conquer Persia spawn the Western World. Yet, Alexander fits inside my head. Hanging by a thread, swaying like a filament, I could be wind-ripped, swallowed, eaten from within or I might live to work another morning, spinning civilization from my mouth. ~ . ~ The Witch's Apprentice Tricia Chapman Sometimes, now that she is too big to be a morsel, Gretel digs into the wall, eats handfuls of gingerbread and buttercream and lets the sugar put her in a stupor. She thinks of her brother—likely married to some farmer's daughter, with kids Gretel hopes she never meets. She thinks of how she got back to the cottage. When Gretel knocked, lost by choice, this time, the witch was desperate for an apprentice. Don't I know you? the witch said, her face and hands puckered like burnt pudding. Gretel told her what she knew. Milk will thin icing and cold eggs make a heavy cake. I won't leave again. When Gretel stumbled back into town six years ago, sick, the twittering housewives gave her frowning glances that knew sin, or those who come close. The burns on her hands healed, but at night, the walls looked like slabs of the darkest bread. Now, Gretel watches the forest not for prey but for someone come to look for her, Someone with an axe, a poisoned apple, or even a shard of glass slipper. Someone ready to fight. ~ . ~ Pssst. . . God Speaking Miles Coon Yes, I do know what each of you will do. And yes, you have free will. You can choose even though you will choose what I know you will. If it were otherwise, your sins would be my fault, and I'm all-good. I gave Moses his tablets, the first prescription, before HMO's which was my idea. I manage care. I part the sea and unruly hair. I work miracles and play at tricks, eat oysters any time of year. I gave Ludwig his Ode to Joy and drafted the variable-term lease you refer to as life. And what about the wife? My idea. Some think I am a woman. I'll never tell. Maybe I'm a mountain or the ceaseless sea. Could be. More a child than a king. I reach into the endless reaches of blue. Being only good, I am the truth or a good lie. All you need is a good lie, don't you, when things get rough? And now you'll ask where evil came from. Not from me. Your labels don't stick up here. The child that suffers and dies is spared…who knows what? (I do)… I listen to what you make of clouds, and smile. I must clear something up about the serpent, the apple, the garden you fouled not playing by the rules: watch out where you put your mouth. ~ . ~ Over Drinks Yasmin Dalisay He showed her how rebel soldiers in Sierra Leone cut off the limbs of village children. Short sleeve or long? they'd ask. He hit the edge of his hand against her forearm. He said that in camps, amputees wait for prostheses. Each arm must be fitted to work properly. The new arm has a sleeve, a sheath of plastic to cover what is left. This way, the stub is not the only point of contact, and more muscle can be used to operate the hook. One can also get a cosmetic hand to slip over the hook—for "social situations." It is easy to match the color of a hand. The palm, however, always looks plastic. It can't be helped. ~ . ~ Magnolia Karin de Weille Through rents in the thick white slipped             lithesome buds, peeled                                                brightness luminous thumbprints on the mist Branches         stark, a moist black followed still working their way Everything visible but no source of light only the rooted constellation beside me What could I do? I walked on through my black cells their tight and pointed buds In each one                         wrap of my ear           my                                                curled tongue                                        separate fingers— closed together Be patient Be the black branch wending its way river of longing but the river rushes down into itself—my universe ~ . Blade of Grass Karin de Weille Not a blade—a leaf. Look— the seam down the center— two hands that meet, catch the bead of rain, lay it in the soil just there for the root to suck at. All these slim troughs, pitched this way and that, ready to be struck. My own self pitched like this green gutter, bent around the blade. The long fold. Down the length of my days, heart's sweet groove. Grace drops. You. ~ . ~ 2 Corinthians 5:1 Lesleigh Forsyth "For we know that if our earthly house were dissolved, We have a building of God, A house not made with hands, Eternal in the heavens." We have a building of God where clerics buzz and I watch sunlight eternal in the heavens stain color onto cold granite. Where clerics buzz, I watch sunlight needled at the back, procession of blurred stains, color on cold granite down the transept to the altar. Needling at the back, processional blur of blue robes, the children's choir wavers down the transept to the altar, hands folded over starched white crosses on their blue robes. The children's choir wavers green leaf voices into harmony, hands folded over starched white crosses. My ears lean toward faith again, in green leaf voices, harmony of air spiralling up the organ pipes. My ears lean toward faith again, And Then Shall Your Light Break Forth through air spiralling up the organ pipes. For we know that from a house not made with hands Would Your Light Break Forth if our earthly house were dissolved. ~ . ~ Vacuum (1955) Bruce Frankel A locomotive thou and vehicle of her obsession to rid our house of dirt, if not disease. Or some fish, a gray urn-shaped, chrome-gilled stove-enamel bottom feeder that inhaled us clean. I come to you, icon, dust grave, employed by love until almost a lover seemed, an angel of hygiene reposing on rounded rail sleds, Lurelle Guild's Model XXX Electrolux, whose name, richer than Royal, Kirby or Hoover (though Eureka had its claim), was scripted in post-war aluminum over nail-polish red, implying something feverish, sexual. She took you out—electric, streamlined, bullet-shaped—and unfurled your cloth hose, placed it in the slant nose hole until clips clicked on curled metal lips. O ardent machine that burned to suction everything through thy sculpted snout. Your motor grew hot and ionized the air while she wielded the long wand, probing every crease and crevice, every spot. Still I smell the air after you'd stopped, after your loud hum cut out and left our limbs tingling in aftershock. Smiling, satisfied, she emptied the small sac. Nothing rare: green cat's eye, nugget of snot, black bobby pin that held her hair in a tight brown bun, but mostly, cotton-candy ash of our dead compacted cells, our sloughed-off selves, that day after day confettied down for thy immaculate bride, vacuuming away. ~ . ~ Once You Lived on the Laotian Border Patty Gordon You had a woman to teach English. Planes flew over her thatched roof. Now footsteps rise like steam up my staircase. Snow drops off the roof as you knock. The doorknob falters in January draft. Clouds fly like airplanes. There's a high-pitched yip. It isn't like a dog being whipped. Is it pleasure or submission? If I make that sound it will throw you back to the squeal of tires on the airfield, the pop of rice in a wok. When the tea kettle whistles, fuses blow, slats cut light in half. The noise will thow you back. Sometimes she falls like a parachute out of your shadow. Does she live on the same rib of road next to a paddy field? Platoons of ghosts smolder in the wall. The chimney vibrates. Does she squat there over a cooking fire? ~ .~ From the Brother to the Sister:   A Crown of Letters (excerpt) Lisa Horner III. Here, these blocks go unnoticed; no one seems to walk and look. Last night, I wandered and found livingrooms painted autumn. A fig on West 12th Street, persimmon on Horatio. They were empty, filled with light. Today, wind rips through my jacket. 'Tumultuous,' 'tempestuous,' all those fiery storm words Sir Shakespeare used (we're too afraid to these days), words that rattle and quake on our tongues, even in our heads before we can get them out. These scenarios repeat: all the airports shut down; I can't get home for the holidays; by the time we see each other, I'm old and grizzled. Last week, an opera singer came aboard my train and asked for silence just to sing. Two men kept talking (dental school). The opera man grabbed one of them, asked him to be quiet. I got off early, walked to the dorm. It's strange to call it home. Some girls I know there wish they were models, read social columns, discuss the newest bars they go to. I think it's all they can talk about; there's no terror in an apple martini. Fashion for solace, part of some greater cool. Maybe it frees them. ~ . ~ . ~ ~ B ~ ~ C ~ [home]