Imprint
A black and white photo of a headless girl
sitting on a department store Santa’s lap --
her neck ripped with a quick swipe of a wrist;
her head lost for reasons forever concealed.
The image’s imprint still sears with the reality
of a mother’s hateful moment,
rejecting love,
severing ties,
leaving behind
the portrait of a decapitated child --
object of incomprehensible, incalculable rage.
sitting on a department store Santa’s lap --
her neck ripped with a quick swipe of a wrist;
her head lost for reasons forever concealed.
The image’s imprint still sears with the reality
of a mother’s hateful moment,
rejecting love,
severing ties,
leaving behind
the portrait of a decapitated child --
object of incomprehensible, incalculable rage.
Summer Regrets
“Stay away from the Old Indian,”
with his strange feathered fedora,
his dark rattlesnake skin.
On Lawyersville Road he walks
to town or somewhere every day
in farmland Schoharie County.
Crunching gravel beneath his boots
with a steady, purposeful stride,
he announces his approach
and stirs my up my curiosity.
“Stay away from the Old Indian,”
my grandmother whispers
fearing his ultra keen redskin ears
might pick up my desire and
turn me into a mouse to carry
in his pocket.
Plantings and harvests pass
and so does the Old Indian.
His presence somewhere
between Hyndesville and Cobleskill
unchronicled.
“Stay away from the Old Indian.
He’s getting too close.
Don’t make eye contact.
Go back to your reading.”
But what if I hadn’t. And instead:
met him on Lawyersville Road,
walked with that Old Indian,
heard legends of woodland spirits
terrifying old white women
who sit on farmhouse porches.
with his strange feathered fedora,
his dark rattlesnake skin.
On Lawyersville Road he walks
to town or somewhere every day
in farmland Schoharie County.
Crunching gravel beneath his boots
with a steady, purposeful stride,
he announces his approach
and stirs my up my curiosity.
“Stay away from the Old Indian,”
my grandmother whispers
fearing his ultra keen redskin ears
might pick up my desire and
turn me into a mouse to carry
in his pocket.
Plantings and harvests pass
and so does the Old Indian.
His presence somewhere
between Hyndesville and Cobleskill
unchronicled.
“Stay away from the Old Indian.
He’s getting too close.
Don’t make eye contact.
Go back to your reading.”
But what if I hadn’t. And instead:
met him on Lawyersville Road,
walked with that Old Indian,
heard legends of woodland spirits
terrifying old white women
who sit on farmhouse porches.
No Love Lost
Scattered across the kitchen floor,
translucent shards absorb
red rays of sunset.
Jagged veined rivers emanate
from the point of impact,
threatening to burst
from the window frame.
Dustpan and broom suddenly
disturb the uneasy silence,
scratchy glass gravel scars
the surface with each sweep.
A winter blast rattles
the window’s ragged remnants.
Reminders of conflict
crash onto the floor.
The brittle window,
too fragile
against the clenched fist.
translucent shards absorb
red rays of sunset.
Jagged veined rivers emanate
from the point of impact,
threatening to burst
from the window frame.
Dustpan and broom suddenly
disturb the uneasy silence,
scratchy glass gravel scars
the surface with each sweep.
A winter blast rattles
the window’s ragged remnants.
Reminders of conflict
crash onto the floor.
The brittle window,
too fragile
against the clenched fist.
The Man in the Black Coat
I catch glimpses of him lurking, unnoticed by others.
He injects himself into my thoughts like an
annoying, prying party guest I want to avoid.
My mind moves with scattered deliberation, ignoring
threats of death and life without my love.
My will crowds out the shroud of looming certainty.
My body aches from worry and lack of sleep.
In the hospital room, he advances toward the bed;
I glare menacingly at his reflection in doctors’ eyes;
My love’s life now reduced to slow, muted monitor beeps.
He holds my husband’s limp hand. Hope collapses.
The man in the black coat turns to me,
his mournful eyes pierce my waning spirit.
With a wistful wave of his arm, all becomes silent.
He injects himself into my thoughts like an
annoying, prying party guest I want to avoid.
My mind moves with scattered deliberation, ignoring
threats of death and life without my love.
My will crowds out the shroud of looming certainty.
My body aches from worry and lack of sleep.
In the hospital room, he advances toward the bed;
I glare menacingly at his reflection in doctors’ eyes;
My love’s life now reduced to slow, muted monitor beeps.
He holds my husband’s limp hand. Hope collapses.
The man in the black coat turns to me,
his mournful eyes pierce my waning spirit.
With a wistful wave of his arm, all becomes silent.
Baudelaire's Venus Noire
I see him cradled in his mother's arms;
she will not let me kiss his fevered face;
she curses my loving him,
my dark skin against his pale
his moans of pain so like his moans of pleasure
mon poete maudit
I return to 6 rue de la Femme-sans-tete
shutting the creaky door behind me
no more to see him at his writing table.
My black arms reach for the window's shutters
clasp them to keep out sounds of clapping shoes
and wagons on cobblestone
My love's breath on my cheek
death’s fragrance clutches what spirit
I still possess
My red brocade armchair embraces
a defeated, weakened body
once devoted to love.
she will not let me kiss his fevered face;
she curses my loving him,
my dark skin against his pale
his moans of pain so like his moans of pleasure
mon poete maudit
I return to 6 rue de la Femme-sans-tete
shutting the creaky door behind me
no more to see him at his writing table.
My black arms reach for the window's shutters
clasp them to keep out sounds of clapping shoes
and wagons on cobblestone
My love's breath on my cheek
death’s fragrance clutches what spirit
I still possess
My red brocade armchair embraces
a defeated, weakened body
once devoted to love.
Bitter Sweets
Schillingmann’s used to be right here,
between the bakery and the butcher shop.
Now nothing remains
of the ice cream parlor
except leaning charred timbers
and bent blackened steel -
debris of childhood scattered
over the black and white
hexagonal tiled floor.
Sun streaks creep
through the confectionery’s corpse
intensifying the destruction
of my memories:
after-school treats
of milk shakes,
double scooped ice cream cones,
New York City egg creams.
Standing like a child lost on a strange street,
I look up and down the city block,
wondering if anyone remembers, as I do,
the chocolate scents of childhood.
between the bakery and the butcher shop.
Now nothing remains
of the ice cream parlor
except leaning charred timbers
and bent blackened steel -
debris of childhood scattered
over the black and white
hexagonal tiled floor.
Sun streaks creep
through the confectionery’s corpse
intensifying the destruction
of my memories:
after-school treats
of milk shakes,
double scooped ice cream cones,
New York City egg creams.
Standing like a child lost on a strange street,
I look up and down the city block,
wondering if anyone remembers, as I do,
the chocolate scents of childhood.
Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire
On March 25, 1911, one hundred and forty-six garment workers - most of them immigrants - died in the worst industrial fire in New York City.
"Remember Us"
"Misery Lane - Moira"
"Misery Lane - Sadie"
"Misery Lane - Dorottya"
"Remember Us"
"Misery Lane - Moira"
"Misery Lane - Sadie"
"Misery Lane - Dorottya"
Remember Us
Immigrant thieves - the factory owners called us.
Locked doors kept us from stealing or sneaking out early, or
escaping the flames devouring flesh and fabric
Some of us huddled in elevator cages, waiting in vain.
Some of us escaped the fiery fury by leaping from windows,
our faith tested and crushed on the sidewalk nine floors below.
A ring with initials “A.K.R”
remnant of a white ribbed petticoat
singed long brown hair
black leather shoes
embroidered lace blouse
Small tokens identifying us as our families
threaded their way among what the factory spewed out:
mangled, charred corpses lined up on Misery Lane.**
We were daughters and mothers planning our Sunday dinners.
We were sisters and friends hoping for sunny park strolls.
Instead, we became burnt offerings to greed.
**26th Street Pier where bodies were brought after the March 25, 1911 Triangle Waist Company factory fire in lower Manhattan.
Locked doors kept us from stealing or sneaking out early, or
escaping the flames devouring flesh and fabric
Some of us huddled in elevator cages, waiting in vain.
Some of us escaped the fiery fury by leaping from windows,
our faith tested and crushed on the sidewalk nine floors below.
A ring with initials “A.K.R”
remnant of a white ribbed petticoat
singed long brown hair
black leather shoes
embroidered lace blouse
Small tokens identifying us as our families
threaded their way among what the factory spewed out:
mangled, charred corpses lined up on Misery Lane.**
We were daughters and mothers planning our Sunday dinners.
We were sisters and friends hoping for sunny park strolls.
Instead, we became burnt offerings to greed.
**26th Street Pier where bodies were brought after the March 25, 1911 Triangle Waist Company factory fire in lower Manhattan.
Misery Lane - Moira
“May you leave without returning.”
My Irish mother’s curse as I gathered my bags to leave
our fishing village and meet James in New York.
We made our first holy communion together
we played on the rocky shore
prayed we would one day follow breeze-blown seabirds
to large American cities crammed with buildings, people, and hope.
A few letters from New York begging me to join him -
stay with his sister, work as a seamstress
marry at the Church of St. Patrick’s on Mulberry Street
My mother pleads grasping my hand
“I’ll miss you terribly! He’ll cause you pain!”
I pull away staring at her glaring, fearful eyes
two defiant women neither giving ground
How I wish her strong arms embraced me now
dragging my blazing body to safety
lifting the curse letting me return
to the cobble beaches of Kinsale.
My Irish mother’s curse as I gathered my bags to leave
our fishing village and meet James in New York.
We made our first holy communion together
we played on the rocky shore
prayed we would one day follow breeze-blown seabirds
to large American cities crammed with buildings, people, and hope.
A few letters from New York begging me to join him -
stay with his sister, work as a seamstress
marry at the Church of St. Patrick’s on Mulberry Street
My mother pleads grasping my hand
“I’ll miss you terribly! He’ll cause you pain!”
I pull away staring at her glaring, fearful eyes
two defiant women neither giving ground
How I wish her strong arms embraced me now
dragging my blazing body to safety
lifting the curse letting me return
to the cobble beaches of Kinsale.
Misery Lane - Sadie
I met my mother
two weeks before the fire.
I met my mother on Ellis Island
for the first time since
I was a child
when she left me
for the streets paved in gold.
Humiliated in the Great Hall
I had to show her
the red birthmark
on my right lower back
before she would take me
to her Hester Street tenement
and to work with her
cleaning up fabric scraps
off the crowded 8th floor.
She escaped the fire and looked for me
but could not find that birthmark on any burned body.
I do not want to be left alone again
Please find me
Misery Lane - Dorottya
A rusted metal bed
with flakes of white paint
made only for one
always in use
where I relieved my
hard swollen painful breasts
after ten hours of work
and nursed my baby
where my husband
with a cough convulsing
his whole body slept
where my baby’s three cousins
played until my brother
wanted to sit reading
letters from home
where my brother’s wife
lay with a child she wished
she could keep inside her
shielding its body from
frigid cold scorching heat
My family’s bodies continue
to sink into its crushed cushion
of rags and straw while
I rest in my wooden bed
with flakes of white paint
made only for one
always in use
where I relieved my
hard swollen painful breasts
after ten hours of work
and nursed my baby
where my husband
with a cough convulsing
his whole body slept
where my baby’s three cousins
played until my brother
wanted to sit reading
letters from home
where my brother’s wife
lay with a child she wished
she could keep inside her
shielding its body from
frigid cold scorching heat
My family’s bodies continue
to sink into its crushed cushion
of rags and straw while
I rest in my wooden bed
If I Were Religious
If I were religious, I would murmur a prayer of thanksgiving.
The Cotswolds fairy tale setting enchants me, so I meander
along a steady incline, away from blond stone, thatch-roofed houses.
Drifting mindlessly toward a centuries-old church, I see
its front double doors of aged wood and rusted iron,
unlatched, inviting the wayward agnostic.
I approach the doors, hesitating, fearing the church’s steeple
might sense a faithless creature to be crushed. My mind riddled
with secular humanism, wiped clean of Latinate phrases, a soul devoid of grace.
Easy prey for the righteous human or stone.
A buzzing bombards my right ear;
a bee, round and slow, its yellow and black striped uniform,
its rapier pointed in my direction. I don’t want to befriend
the Church’s symbol of wisdom and honey sweet spiritualism.
I swat at it, not to injure, but to ward it off.
Angrily buzzing, the sentinel returns, swarming around me now,
sensing the enemy. Wildly waving my arms, I look possessed
of Hieronymus Bosch demons. I retreat down the church steps,
my graceless fall broken only by the middle-aged pastor.
“You can thank God you didn’t fracture anything, my dear.”
“I’ll remember that, Father, that is, if I see Him.”
The Cotswolds fairy tale setting enchants me, so I meander
along a steady incline, away from blond stone, thatch-roofed houses.
Drifting mindlessly toward a centuries-old church, I see
its front double doors of aged wood and rusted iron,
unlatched, inviting the wayward agnostic.
I approach the doors, hesitating, fearing the church’s steeple
might sense a faithless creature to be crushed. My mind riddled
with secular humanism, wiped clean of Latinate phrases, a soul devoid of grace.
Easy prey for the righteous human or stone.
A buzzing bombards my right ear;
a bee, round and slow, its yellow and black striped uniform,
its rapier pointed in my direction. I don’t want to befriend
the Church’s symbol of wisdom and honey sweet spiritualism.
I swat at it, not to injure, but to ward it off.
Angrily buzzing, the sentinel returns, swarming around me now,
sensing the enemy. Wildly waving my arms, I look possessed
of Hieronymus Bosch demons. I retreat down the church steps,
my graceless fall broken only by the middle-aged pastor.
“You can thank God you didn’t fracture anything, my dear.”
“I’ll remember that, Father, that is, if I see Him.”
Montreal March
Muted cotton-soft beats announce
undulating waves of pounding sound
marching beside
crisp, sharp pangs of wood
on taut animal skins
devil-red costumed performers
parade
jumping and swaying --
their muscular arms striking
bass drums — boomingly hollow
and snare drums — piercingly sharp
stirring onlookers into a serpentine cord
of crackling hand claps
thunderous foot stomps
bodies dancing and threading through
Montreal streets.
