Hospital Food

It takes a certain kind of woman
to make me give up a perfectly good spot out on the ledge,
but your voice was soft,
and you were wearing those cute glasses.
The rest of your clothes were all in the laundry, and so,
I folded my wings and came back to bed,
true as a swallow.

The Spanish established missions all over the west,
and brought with them rosaries and refried beans--
all the things that they loved best.
You'll say it was the native tribes
with the best recipes for every sort of hunger, 
and that the Spanish can claim only diseases and Catholicism;
still, you kiss my silver cross
where it rests between my breasts,
and you whisper that I am the nicest nun this side of St. Anyplace.

I was blue all day until you got here, honey.
I was fidgety and cross and off my feed.
But now, here you are,
your glasses on the side table.
I love it when your knees find east and west,
your fingers curl around my ears as if they were Indian jewelry,
and you say "Eat. It's good for you."
Well yes it is, sweetheart.
Yes it is.
_______ 

for Karin's mini challenge at Toads.

Book Review: "I Was Here"

I Was Here by Gayle Forman

My rating: 2 of 5 stars


This is the newest novel by the author of "If I Stay", and the best I can say about it is that I stayed with it to the end. The story concerns Cody, whose lifelong best friend Meg has killed herself by drinking poison while away at college. The topic of teen suicide is a worthy one to take on in a young adult novel, but I don't have too much else that's kind to say about "I Was Here."

The main character and narrator, Cody, just isn't very likeable, even allowing for the pain she's in. She makes snap judgements about everyone she meets, and sticks to that--invariably negative--point of view, even despite all evidence to the contrary. Cody gets caught up in trying to prove that Meg was talked into her self-destruction by someone on a message board who calls himself All-BS. The board is a suicide "support" site, but what they do is "support" going through with it. Cody shows remarkable resolve in finding this guy, but needs a lot of help doing it, especially from a guy named Ben, or "Tragic Guitar Hero." She has him pegged as a player, despite the fact that he helps her at every turn, adopts Meg's orphaned kittens, drives her all the way from Washington state to Nevada, and respects every rule she has while breaking some of his own for her benefit. The guy's basically a prince to her, but she treats him badly anyway. I just couldn't root for her or care about her very much. I liked all the friends she jerked around a lot better than I liked her.

The story itself progresses slowwwwlyyyyyyyy. And then when the payoffs come, they aren't very satisfying at all. Honestly, read something else.



View all my reviews

The Ghost Who Made Love To You

The ghost who made love to you
did it on the sly.

How many times did he see me reach for you?
How many times did your body turn to crows and scatter,
each black dot turning back to look me in the eyes?

The ghost who made love to you knew it wasn't instinct that drove you.
He lived, then died, biding his time.

I was candy in a ribbed paper cup,
dark and bitter, but not dark and bitter enough.

The ghost who finally won you knew it wasn't sweetness you wanted--
not fineness,
not pleasure,
not even love.

I am a summer aster,
someone else's favorite bloom;
bone china on the teak wood in a citrus-scented room.

And you, my last, my favorite love?
You have a man, the ghost, the one you chose;
the dust, the light, the moon.
________

the watercolor of asters is by Olga Sternyk, found on her weheartit.com page.

 

The Ballad of Agnes Lumpf

Agnes Lumpf changes her name to Dakota Descartes,
and starts haunting the coffee shops. 

"Don't I know your name from somewhere?" people always ask.
"You might," she responds mysteriously, putting on a face she copied from her cat.

THE CRUEL PASTRY by Dakota Descartes

Light the slipknot of brusque temptation!
Immediate zoology! Feet talking ropes in hemisphere duplicity!
Highways of dough!
Icing made from the text of dead letters!
You are the planet I cannot plumb, no matter the tenderness of the telescope.

Soon, Dakota Descartes has a cadre of rapt followers,
squinting at her from behind clouds of tobacco smoke.

She learns what the famous poet must--
how to say "In night, no sun; in day, no moon" as if it were the Gettysburg Address,
and to do so with a straight face.

"Where are you from?" her fans ask breathlessly.
"Rangoon," she replies. (She is actually from Muskegon, Michigan.)

"And your parents? Were they artistic, too?"
Dakota looks off into the half distance, 
her smile as ethereal as an Enya song.

"My father was a painter, (a plumber)
and my mother a sculptress." ( a soap opera addict and part time nail tech)

When Dakota Descartes wins the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry,
the President of the United States calls with congratulations.
"Oh, him," she says distractedly, waving a hand and finishing her black tea.

Global melancholy, manufactured star,
all-knowing duffers at the drop-off of aftermath's postmaster,
weary the practical nurse of philanthropy
into a crying stew of the celestial jeremiad!

This from her masterpiece, FUSION OF DOLL AND CYCLONE.

One dreary morning in 2015, 
Dakota Descartes dies from huffing hair coloring
in bathroom number six of her palatial estate.

The staff finds her.
Her tragic death seals her place in the pantheon of immortal poets.

Dakota Descartes 1977-2015. In her own amazing words:
"Death, wearing buskins, treads darkly toward the pyx."

Oh God.
Total brilliance.

Wow!
____

Image at top by Toril Fisher. Posted for Artistic Impressions With Margaret.

The words used in Dakota's poetry came mostly at random from the dictionary.

However, I made up the telescope line, and I'm kind of liking it now. Lord above.

And now, Lambs, off to "camp" with you...

The Fox's Testimony

I was offended by the egg.
The purple-eyed featherless one inside,
suspended in goo, wouldn't even open her eyes,
and therefore believed
that her shell marked the dangerous end of everything.

She was right.
I ate her whole damn world,
and the yellow gunk on the tip of my nose condemns me.
Fly, little preposterous naked peanut;
fly straight into my stomach-nest.

It may be true that I am not the best mother for birds,
but my kits copy my every move.
They stick close, and are already skilled pilferers;
could I be more proud?
Besides, the hen is more pragmatic than sentimental.

You may get your moment yet, though--
you who judge me.
The sky, lonely for the birds that never rose,
may open and suck me and my family up into the sun,
little orange snacks to feed the fireball.

This is why the egg offends me--
I know what it has in mind.
_______

for Artistic Impressions With Margaret--Toril Fisher. Image at top is Toril's, entitled "Wanna Play?"

 
 

Left Unsaid

The time change, this forward jerk
offends God--
look it up, Poindexter. 

It will be dark again in the morning--
a half star from the night will fall like an acrobat,
and the deaf ear will snow itself silent.

All I wanted was a particular voice of yours;
the soft one, lavender-scented, rare.
I tried to let you know,

but the order of things was already skewed.
Maybe in the fall I'll get you back for one sweet reclaimed hour,
but until then, 

stay out of the chronology of my poems,
Stranger.
______

Eurydice's Motorcycle

Orpheus, you dropped your lyre
like a tear from the Sun's eye
there at the portal to day.

Hades tricked you,
but the truth is, baby,
I wasn't behind you anyway.

I scavenged your lyre,
and while Cerberus watched,
turned it to my own purpose.

It's our own way out--
forgive us
forget us,
Orpheus.
_____

for flash 55 at real toads.