from OUR PATCHES ARE STITCHED WITH WIRE
THE GOOD LIE
He tipped his life over,
emptied me out,
the children hitting my head
like ice cubes. There were not enough
towels and napkins, too few Kleenex,
to mop up the splatter. Drops of it
dried in a claggy spray, the cat...
she tried to lick me up.
His glass full of new milk,
mine a swallow of backwashed
stale beer. Day-old dirty
dishes and babies on the floor.
And babies on the floor.
I pick them up,
they look at me
with punctuation marks for eyes,
usually the nicer ones.
I hold my fingers in a cross
when the questions fall out on tears.
Lying the fault away
from both sides stings,
the truth bitten off in a coppery squirt.
He tipped his life over,
emptied me out,
the children hitting my head
like ice cubes. There were not enough
towels and napkins, too few Kleenex,
to mop up the splatter. Drops of it
dried in a claggy spray, the cat...
she tried to lick me up.
His glass full of new milk,
mine a swallow of backwashed
stale beer. Day-old dirty
dishes and babies on the floor.
And babies on the floor.
I pick them up,
they look at me
with punctuation marks for eyes,
usually the nicer ones.
I hold my fingers in a cross
when the questions fall out on tears.
Lying the fault away
from both sides stings,
the truth bitten off in a coppery squirt.
CUTTING TEETH
At 2 am, the baby cries her teeth
into the world, a bundle of curls
spills onto her head and a dream
starts to mean something.
Each thing
born through pain, a red squirm
of flesh, an angel-white tooth,
the crush of adolescence, the abandon
of being alone again.
Agony marks the spot,
the point where we stop being
what we were before, a blow
for the memory not to be forgotten.
To come through the beating,
alive and better
is life.
At 2 am, the baby cries her teeth
into the world, a bundle of curls
spills onto her head and a dream
starts to mean something.
Each thing
born through pain, a red squirm
of flesh, an angel-white tooth,
the crush of adolescence, the abandon
of being alone again.
Agony marks the spot,
the point where we stop being
what we were before, a blow
for the memory not to be forgotten.
To come through the beating,
alive and better
is life.
CASTING
Our poles are sliding into the green
of the lake we rented boats on, rusted
seats, worn oars and the sun is dancing
as if it were under the moon.
We have cold chicken with gelatinous gravy,
it slides away, we are looking at anything
but each other’s opinions. I am making S’s
with worms on hooks .
He always brings the boys, for hours,
they must know how to fill the emptiness
of open water and silent thoughts. I know that pickerel
have teeth and sunnies are too small,
the bass and rainbow trout large enough to bone
are rare prizes. I don’t know
how to make my small tackle
of knowledge stretch to a day’s conversation.
The silver spoons are spinning
and we sprinkle egg shells
to attract the big one. I am wondering if it is the secret
to opening the way between us,
just to catch the monster,
jam it on a board and stand under it,
if it would make everything all better,
and we just don’t have the right bait.
Our poles are sliding into the green
of the lake we rented boats on, rusted
seats, worn oars and the sun is dancing
as if it were under the moon.
We have cold chicken with gelatinous gravy,
it slides away, we are looking at anything
but each other’s opinions. I am making S’s
with worms on hooks .
He always brings the boys, for hours,
they must know how to fill the emptiness
of open water and silent thoughts. I know that pickerel
have teeth and sunnies are too small,
the bass and rainbow trout large enough to bone
are rare prizes. I don’t know
how to make my small tackle
of knowledge stretch to a day’s conversation.
The silver spoons are spinning
and we sprinkle egg shells
to attract the big one. I am wondering if it is the secret
to opening the way between us,
just to catch the monster,
jam it on a board and stand under it,
if it would make everything all better,
and we just don’t have the right bait.
BIO: C.L. Sostarich is a forty-something freelance writer and poet who lives in the Pocono Mountains of Pennsylvania. Though her various odd jobs, four children and husband keep her fairly busy, she is also a not-so-much in the closet video game freak, World of Warcraft guild master, amateur photographer, and purveyor of fine sarcasm.
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