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Winning Poems for February 2003
Judge Mark Yakich
IN REVERSE
by John Eivaz
The sober gentleman drove home in reverse. When he arrived, the hole in his lot
between a modified taupe Ranch and a traditional pale yellow Ranch had begun its
tentacle-waving grab at the chilly air. Do I live here? the gentleman inquired
of himself, soberly. Like a gust he hissed: I do. The way it flails and reaches,
he continued to explore, it certainly has touched my wife already, my family.
The good work car strained to continue in the opposite direction, against the
squish of a bleeding foot in a work boot. I love her, them. I must save them.
The gentleman disowned sobriety in a desperate act, allowed his vehicle to pick
up speed. Rode the ribbon of road out of midnight's bright yarn box, through
harvest brown stoic freeze and sink of oven. Whipping these mesa'd flatlands he
might as well have been motoring in the right direction. The monk-specks dotted
the mountains, looked the same, coming or going. If the gentleman wasn't wasted,
he might have stopped for a spot of no-talking. Which he had nonetheless. His
communication required not another. Articulation left before him, behind him:
the scale of the no-longer sober gentleman now measured by his thought, how
alien it was. For what do we have? What might we trust but our differences, even
unto ourselves, saith the Whooey.
My handsome wife, my wedding kids, snug between the Ranches - what will become
of them? Now that I have disappeared into what was - where will they go? They
have everywhere to go, saith the Telephone-Guru, the Tinkling-Dreamcatcher, the
Internal-Combustion-Shoulder-Pat. Be not a-Fred, or a-Bill, or an orator. The
wasted gentleman continued testifying his satisfying Yabba Dabba Doo sans As and
Os. I must save them, Ybb Dbb D Ybb Dbb D. Speedometer still too promising, he
floored it in reverse on the straightaway. His bloody foot sang dry hymns, and
crackled. Go man go, chanted the sacred jackrabbits. Yes Yes, hissed the cool
lizards.
Just before he ran out of gas many miles from his lot, and the promising massage
of dark tentacles had whipped away his wife, had said Now Now to his children
and watched them as they slept, the tired gentleman's hungover red eyes fell
upon a glorious hitchiker. She paced and joked to herself, half-carrying her own
lot. She wasn't going forwards or backwards, only pacing. The glowing gentleman
said Hop in, and she did. The car faced west, motionless, and their sunsets were
now balanced.
The next day the gas came and the car drove away. Where is our lot? the glorious
hitchiker cooed. It is over there, saith the Sparkling Wheel. Way over there.
Gabriel's Cup
by Tamar Silverman
I fall asleep with Tennyson to dream of Titian angels;
dream I've joined with Gabriel, pregnant with giants
grown tired of little men, for if I take the farthest reach,
hind's feet on high places, surefooted without justification,
beauty becomes what pleases without explanation.
Until then, a thousand dunes to walk, in the tremor
of plagues poured and with your slaves, to exhaustion--
no deliverer come. So let the Cairene women ululate;
let witches curse-- I've come for the seer; my want:
The promised land. Anoint my breasts with vanilla;
jasmine between these thighs. Kohl-line the lapis
of my eyes. Brush my hair with olive oil. Coax the cobra
to dance with the asses of men; mix bone and seed,
stone and spice to heal, then wake me in the Dead City,
poisoned beneath gray laburnum trees, to see the skyline
dome and tower slend against a backdrop cerulean deep,
that I may believe, cynically drinking from the beggar's cup
an old, diminished man has given, to say: Illusions end.
Divine Wind
by Paul Madden
her arms, she said, were wire
the dress hanging from her would dry
if only I wasnt rain
it was I
who stuck my finger into the sky
and replied, I was a paper bird
that rain would pull down from the sky
if only she wasnt the wind
Hokusai's Women
by Kathryn Black
Coiffured women are slender birds
enfolded in silk wings.
Their faces have been dusted
with rice powder - white
with small scarlet lips,
finely drawn black eyebrows.
Walking with the grace
of snowy egrets,
they bend their long necks
and tempt lovers
who dare not touch
except with flowery words.
WINTER FOG
Dark Moods
by Ariegaw LE Garcia
It rises from the bottom or maybe it descends
from above sometimes you see
it come in from out there floating along the surface of the Bering Sea
a twist on deception in the noiseless freeze all I hear is the motion
of the water against the boat and the fog horn that shatters
the muffled effect of molecules packed tightly together
bone cold obscures my reason unable to control
the chattering of my teeth pulling the nets into
the boat I convulse the line slices into my
fingers icy rage is never planned it
just happens like this thick
winter fog that swallows
you alive leaving no
clues to which
way shore
lies
A Synonym
for Stoic
by Laurel Dodge
Forecast: Snow squalls. Windchills
below zero. The dead of winter. Under
my down comforter, I shiver.
I can't get warm.
I didn't hold him. A technician cradled
my cat as they killed him. The vet assured me
it wasn't the wrong decision.
I hung up the phone.
Another loss. She says the words
like a bad actor, traps me in an obligatory
hug. I donνt want her stiff arms around me.
I shrug off her mothering.
I keep using the same metaphor over
and over: Like a baby Rhesus monkey denied
of real parenting, I learned
how to cling to wood.
I waited until his brain was dead.
I waited until I was sure he couldn't hear me.
Then, like a coward, I whispered:
I love you, Dad. Goodbye.
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