"La Parada*" by Carol Gloor
You dream of bells at dawn
on this December day
of frozen rain and
the color of wadding used
to stuff the mouths of the dead.
You dream of bells
until the actual front
door rings and pounds.
They've sung the security
guard to sleep, pushed your buzzer
and kidnapped the elevator,
these strumming, ringing
revelers dressed
in guitars and tambourines,
garlanded in orange, purple, green.
These jesters push past
the half can of warm beer left on the TV,
the pile of unfolded laundry,
the white hardened fry pan grease.
Because you're not ready for it,
today will be a party
of chicken, cakes, and wine,
of singing, racket, waking the neighbors
'til they party too,
a day when nothing
on your list gets crossed off,
a day like a child lighting
her first illicit match,
a snap of light in the hand.
These carolers assault your grief,
drag it from its bed, shake it,
and demand an explanation,
because they know
God comes, if at all,
only as surprise.
*An Hispanic Christmas tradition of caroling and parties, beginning before dawn, at the homes of unsuspecting friends, gathering people all day, meant to mimic Mary and Joseph's search for a place to stay before Jesus' birth.
"Living Plastic" by J.S. Kierland
They sat under the willow tree turning and twisting the soft plastic arms and legs, slipping the electric colors and bright plastic shoes onto naked dolls. Sammy squeezed a pair of blue jeans over slim hips and Phoebe showed him how to stuff the bright orange turtleneck under the flowing blonde hair. Cliffy moaned as he tried to force his doll into a glowing pink party dress that had somehow turned inside out to expose the curve of the plastic underneath. He finally handed the doll to Phoebe and she adjusted the dress and spread its pink ruffles, making them fluff over the doll’s slim thighs and legs.
"Put the clothes on her, not her on the clothes," Phoebe told him, and went back to fitting the studded black motorcycle jacket on the svelte red headed doll she turned between her fingers. She knew the boys were only playing with her because she had been away to what Cliffy called, "the place in the long thin trees." She'd gone there to gain back the weight, and to stop vomiting. It had been her first time and she'd been surprised to find so many other girls with the same fears and problems she had. Her cure went on for three endless weeks, and she wondered if she'd ever stop thinking about fat fingers, chubby faces, and growing breasts. The real test came when she sat down to her homecoming dinner at the big oak table with the family. She ignored their strained voices and furtive glances, and tried not to give any hint that she was about to rush for the toilet to throw up at the end of each bite. Her Mother finally wheeled in a large cake topped with burning candles that spelled WELCOME HOME PHOEBE in dark dripping-chocolate. They had all brought her presents for the occasion. There were brand new ice skates from her parents and handmade earrings from her brothers. “If they don’t fit I can always take them back,” her mother blurted and even her father laughed. Phoebe put on a fake smile, and wanted to go upstairs, close the bedroom door and be alone with her dolls. For three horrible weeks she’d thought about nothing else but the smooth, slim bodies of her perfectly shaped Barbie dolls and their bright electric clothes.
The boys waited for her to finish putting on the motorcycle boots. One of the shoes on Cliff's doll hung loosely on its torn strap but the magnificent pink dress glowed in the bright morning sun. Sammy's doll was perfect in its form-fitting turtleneck and glittering black heels. Phoebe finished dressing her redheaded doll in the tight leather pants and studded jacket, and snapped her onto the sleek motorcycle.
The boys giggled and waited for her to yell, "Ready, set, GO," and they popped off their doll's heads and passed them to each other, snapping on the new heads so that the dolls were transformed and wearing different clothes. The boys shrieked and laughed, and kept popping the heads on and off in a blur of revolving hairstyles.
Phoebe laughed with them, waiting for the kitchen window to open as she passed her doll’s head into the mix of tiny hands pulling off detachable heads, snapping them on the slim waiting bodies, and holding them up to show before starting all over again. She loved laughing with her brothers and was glad to be with them again, even though she longed to be alone in her room.
The kitchen window opened, got jammed, and Phoebe waited until it finally straightened and shot up all the way. Her mother’s shrill voice poured down over them, “What’s going on? Are you making the boys play that awful doll game again?”
Phoebe’s finger came up to her mouth and the boy’s loud laughter turned into light giggles. “It’s all right, Mamma,” she yelled up at the window. “We don’t play that game anymore.” The boys hunched their shoulders to repress their laughter and crawled further under the willow tree to begin changing the clothes on the dolls again. When they finished they looked up at Phoebe and held their dolls in position. “It doesn’t hurt at all,” Phoebe whispered, and the boys leaned forward, waiting for her, “Ready, set, GO!”
"Sudanese Civil War: A Found Poem from NYT, 5/20" by Pamela L. Laskin
No shelter
no clean water
the women line up
for food distribution,
and a boy
age four
wearing bright red shorts
sits still as a statue
aside from the slow movements
of his left hand
to ward off the flies
from his face.
"The Kiss" by Pete Mladinic
Go on, give him a kiss.
--But I can’t kiss a corpse.
It’s your father.
--Not my father, though it looks like him.
This is your chance. Soon we’ll close
The lid, take the casket out to the limo
Wagon, to the cemetery. Say goodbye.
Kiss your father goodbye.
You look like him, remind me of him.
The undertaker goes on, talkative
In this parlor dream as he was in life,
Say, my sister’s backyard years ago
Where we met. He was always handsome
Except the last couple of times,
The last at our niece’s wedding party
On a patio in Newport overlooking the beach
Of chilly salt water, the rocky surf.
Then he himself died, is gone now,
His wife’s first summer as a widow.
I wonder if one or both daughters
Went to his open casket, leaned
And kissed his handsome mouth,
His dark Mediterranean good looks gone
By then. Did it look like him?
He never failed to mention my father.
You remind me of your father. Here
In the parlor of memory, his undertaker
Hand on my shoulder, his voice
Hushed. Kiss your father.
--That’s not my father.
If I touched his lips to mine..
Many things I could have done,
But not then and there.
"Want" by Dave Morrison
He wanted there to always be
six cigarettes in his pack, he
wanted there to always be a
half-bottle of bourbon in the
cupboard by the sink, he wanted
it to always be Friday, he wanted
all the women to be lovely and all
the men funny, all the politicians
dull and honest, all the clergy
optimistic and trustworthy, he wanted
all food to be good for you, he wanted it
to rain at night, he wanted everyone to
get along, he wanted young people to
have good taste in music, he wanted
crooks to steal from each other, he
wanted everyone to die quickly, he wanted
long summers and short winters, he
wanted to be well-liked and left alone,
he wanted a cheeseburger medium rare
with cheddar, onion, lettuce and curly
fries, he wanted a better view than the
ambulance bays and dumpster, he wanted
to get on with it.
"Dead City (After Colinas)" by J. Tarwood
Not enough dying?
Once more turning back
to cancerous walls,
luminous putrefying green?
Done with dream's embrace
of places and lips
believed beautiful?
Deny accepting love,
the phantom parrot of unearthed ruins?
Rain, rain. Black music.
These streets an exercise yard
for cheery cadavers.
The crucified still walk
and work. A crazy might mutter, "Light, have to get
to the light." But weather
holds cold and empty.
Blind the bustle of the dead,
perfectly tidy, perfectly dead.
The festival continues. Only hear
the sour metal fall of a new
night like an immense sheet of steel.