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Issue 45/46 : July - Dec 2009 : Volume 12 No 1/2 Christina M. Rau Lament At The Butcher's Block III. A Butcher On My Back Don’t tell me her name. I’ll pour through White pages, web pages, Old yearbook pages, Trying to figure out What’s lacking in her Which is the projection Of what’s completely wrong With me, which is The truth of all relationships, The trick of living— Faking it long enough To live through the flaw, Or through to the flaw, Until it becomes the sole Purpose of being. I know her first and last. I know what her lips feel when She kisses you. I know how her olfactory glands Open quickly when you’re beside her. I know her reasons for taking her fingers To yours Running them along your spine, Over your abdomen, Your thigh, I know her name as well or better Than I know mine. I know her name better Than she or you do. Now I know her Outside to in Without seeing her face, Imagining—no, knowing, because she must, Knowing she has long red hair. IV. The Butcher Goes To Bed The room is hot. You’re supposed to sleep in a cool blue room. He sleeps there After she took off his shirt. The weight in pounds falls Into the center of the mattress. They roll into each other Into the center of the mattress. Her arm meets his and he does Not move. He stays on his belly. The letters across his back Give him an unearned identity, Grant him an unwarranted swagger— I’m the butcher, he proclaims, Expecting others to swoon, And they do, we do, me too. The ink is that typical blue- Green in typical fancy Font, but tinges differently Against olive-skin, Serif font that spans from Before blade to after blade. A hamsa on Jewish skin, An oxymoron on his bicep, Reflects the tautology He lives at every moment, The reason he needs his false Identity inked permanently Across his back— To affect others, to intrigue us, And me, In case he couldn’t do it On his own. ... Long Island Babette Albin Time and Space Time and Space are my sworn enemies. They set about to ensnare me daily. My night they wait for me, hiding in corners. Time and Space would define me, limit me, spell me into measured definity. They would over-rule me, out-mode me and finally abolish me. Poetry, will you befriend me? Give me comfort and nourish me. Sustain me when my sole heart is failing. Extend me when I am found wanting. And I am wanting. To be untied, to be free of the obligations that would pin me hand and foot to a world that would waste me, use and abuse me and never remind me That I am someone with a mind, and a body and a spirit that wants to be known, attained, realized and recognized. So wave to me in my seldom-felt solemnity. Acknowledge that my growth is important. The children are calling and I must adhere to my lost cause. Goodbye. Don't open the door to strangers like love, peace and harmony. The world is not ready for our song. New York Ekok Soubir I Am Not You are a monkey. No! Not me! An ape is a monkey. A gorilla is a monkey. A monkey is a monkey. But not me! Then you are a cat. No! Not me! A cheetah is a cat. A tiger is a cat. A cat is a cat, but not me! I am me! New York Please read more poems in English in the hardcopy... |