Song of my battered soul temi roseI must lose this sadness I must lose the sorrow
I must lose this sense of being My trespasses as I have forgiven others who have trespassed against me
I will lose this sadness |
From an ontology of everyday things to an epistemology of desire. | ||||||||||
FOR A PDF OF THIS ISSUE CLICK HERE | |||||||||||
Perceptions | |||||||||||
Perceptions 1304 Third Street Catasauqua, Pa. 18032 http://www.2cyberwhelm.org/perceptions | |||||||||||
women's poetry for a change issue # 61 spring 2004 | |||||||||||
ISSBN 0888-9058 |
$5.OO/£ 3.50 | ||||||||||
temperance rochelle hope mehrI am suffocating on your good intentions | ||||||||||
chandelier rochelle hope mehrit seems as if you can't get anywhere | ||||||||||
the woman and the moon margaret bolesthe woman and the moon | ||||||||||
can I call it poetry? margaret bolessometimes I feel | ||||||||||
silly temi rosein the middle of the night | ||||||||||
not right margaret bolesI can not 'not write' so hard to we are together 'I' | ||||||
the ribbon of the day kathryn paulsenEach morning Angela tied her hair in the ribbon on the day. She didn't have just seven the way girls have panties. She had colors and patterns, some of them raveled at the ends, all of them bent at the spots where the knots came, none of them washed in months or years."I like you," Daddy used to say. "I like you with a ribbon in your hair." Yet he had never bought her one. She picked them herself. There were some so beautiful she hadn't dared wear them.
She liked to imagine herself in a dress of ribbons, all draped from one winding around the top of her bodice, blowing in the wind, exposing her thin flesh. But it would be expensive, so many ribbons. Sunday's was turquoise. It didn't match what she was wearing, but no matter. It was her mood. With a brilliant sky, as hot as hell, she flouted the clouds. She stroked and twirled her scanty pony tail and the rich, ridged grosgrain. That afternoon, she and Lela had had a fight over a toothbrush. Later they would wonder why. Later they would drop their eyes and apologize and put their heads together as if they were telling secrets and even kiss and let a tear or two paint pink lines on their cheeks. It was all show, purely for Daddy. Lela had a weak chin and was from Boston. Angela didn't like her.
Monday's was yellow. If the other girls condescended to criticize her, they might have said it brought out the sallowness of her complexion but she knew they wouldn't bother. She thought instead of velvet, toasty butter. It was nice to have enough of it to smear on whatever you wanted. Angela worried that the butter they got from the cow on their farm was too white. She worried, even though Daddy said it was the best butter.Angela's first chore of the day was to set the table for lunch. She used the metal tumblers they'd got from eight books of Green Stamps and she gave Daddy the gold one and herself the blue.
She couldn't give Daddy just any color; she'd never give him white or red or purple, and rarely brown or green. She couldn't tell you why, except that the white one had a permanent brown ring inside its joint from bad dishwashing. Except that something bad might happen, she couldn't tell you what. She wouldn't give herself those colors either; but sometimes, when she was feeling out of sorts, she'd give herself and another girl the same color, maybe the blue or orange. But no one else could ever have Daddy's color.
So when there wasn't enough tumblers to go around without using two gold ones, Angela had to ask Terry to wash one. Terry didn't like that one bit. She asked what was wrong with the other gold one, and Angela had to say it wasn't clean. Terry gave it a quick rinse, and Angela said it still | ||||||
here I am again temi roseI came here looking for something | ||||||
wasn't clean. Terry said Angela was crazy; Angela said she'd wash the blankety-blank glass herself. Terry said why not use a glass-glass instead; there were plenty of those. Angela said she didn't think Daddy'd like it. And that settled that.
Tuesday she chose a pattern for change, though lately she'd preferred the pure true strength of colors, no fads. But this ribbon was sweet, a sweet striped powder pink and powder blue. "Ain't she sweet," she imagined Daddy singing to her, as he sang to one or another of them now and then, but less and less lately, "See her walkin' down the street. Now I ask you very confidentially." That afternoon came her weekly trip to town. She went with Bobbi and Dana, whom she didn't mind, except for the silly way Bobbi spelled her name and topped the I with a circle or even a heart, even sometimes with an arrow through it. How childish could you get? But Bobbi drove the truck and drove it well. And Daddy called her a sergeant, whereas Angela was only a PFC. Angela thought it was about time she got a license, if only Daddy could find the time to teach her how to drive. In town they bought groceries, ate ice cream sundaes, and spent their allowances - Bobbi on movie magazines and stationary, Dana on two paperback mysteries and Angela on candy bars and ribbons, thin little ribbons she thought she'd wear two, three, four at once.
She was tempted by a black velvet one, but she didn't think she was ready for black velvet. On the way back Bobbi asked them what they'd wish for if they could have one wish. Bobbi would wish for one of those Mercedes with the diesel engines. Dana wished for trip to Paris, a whole year in Paris. "I don't know," said Angela when her turn came. "There's so much." Her mind was still on her ribbons. "Give me a minute and I'll think of something." But quickly they began talking about something else. Angela thought it was a good thing she hadn't told her wish, because if she had it wouldn't come true. And she thought there was a chance, just a chance but one worth keeping, that Daddy could see what wishes were in their hearts and grant them. She admired the brilliant sunset they were driving into even though it meant they were late for dinner.
Wednesday's was orange, a very old orange, turning brown at the tips but the rest of it still fine. Angela had never washed it or any of the others because she was afraid they'd fade or grow limp, even limper than they were for all the wearing. She never lent her ribbons, but then no one asked her anymore. Late in the day, Peggy Sue did a dance out front by the road, wiggling her hips a lot and swinging her arms. She was dressed like a harem girl, tied in lots of scarves, she had almost as many scarves as Angela had ribbons, and wearing bright red jewels on both hands and around her neck. She said they were rubies, and it didn't matter that they were made from taillights by kids at a farm down the road, because they looked like rubies. They twinkled and danced, better than Peggy Sue, Angela thought. Peggy Sue spent most of her time playing little 7 inch | ||||||
skinnydipping barbara stacynaked in the ocean of cold air | ||||||
bon voyage rochelle hope mehrhe yells now | ||||||
My Environment temi roseOnce upon a time a long long time ago |
records on her portable record player and dancing around it. When she did it outdoors, boys would watch her, getting randy as squirrel, Daddy said, but he didn't mind. Daddy used to spend more nights with Peggy Sue than with anyone else. Angela knew because she counted. Lately Daddy'd been favoring Debby most, but he still spent a lot more time with Peggy Sue than with Angela.
Thursday's was red, but it didn't make her feel bloody. Or fiery either. To tell the truth, Angela had no imagination when it came to red, none at all. But that didn't mean she didn't like it as well as any of the others, better even. Thursday was her day to do the ironing, the job she hated most of all. She thought her turn had come too soon again, but Daddy didn't like complainers. The worst part of all was ironing things she knew belonged to Debby. If only she dared burn a hole in Debby's precious purple shirt. Of all the girls here, Debby was the one Angela hated worst. She hated the very name Debby, she would hate anyone else unfortunate enough to bear that name. Once Angela imagined, the way other people dream, that Daddy said to them, "Your names are all wrong, I'm going to rename you." And Lela became Gloria, Gloria became Peggy Sue, Peggy Sue became Lela, and Angela became Debby. She heard it like a stab in the heart. And she left for the kitchen, intending to stab herself.
Friday's was purple, but Angela hardly had time to choose. She rose just before four, when everyone was awakened by the screams of Gloria, whose baby was ready to be born. "He's coming out, he's coming out," she shrieked, but it was hours and hours til he finally did and she screamed all day. Daddy wasn't disturbed to hear her. "Sounds real healthy," he said, but he didn't come near her, not even into the room. He said it was woman's business. The only ones who stayed in the room were Jennifer, who was a nurse and finally delivered the baby in the afternoon, and Dana and Lela. Angela and the others fetched them food and things from time to time. Angela couldn't stand to look at Gloria who was white as a ghost and, Angela was sure, in danger of becoming one. Later, she wished she hadn't had to see the newborn still attached with its bloody rope to Gloria who just lay, still ghostly but quiet now, with her eyes shut. It made Angela want never to have a baby. Daddy always said he wanted her to have one, but he never could seem to find the time.
Saturday was white. Pure, colorless ribbon for a colorless day. The quietest day Angela could remember, everyone seemed busy elsewhere and chores were neglected or accomplished out of her sight. She wondered whether the others who were no doubt still attending on Gloria had moved her somewhere else. Gloria's room was the quietest place of all. Everyone but Gloria was at supper. But when Angela asked how Gloria was doing, girls just shrugged and shook their heads and said they didn't know, they hadn't seen her. Angela didn't like supper. Besides spaghetti, there were home | ||||
ama mary laine yarberShe rounds her coral lips and where she will discover | |||||
canned green beans, which she suspected of botulism. It particularly disturbed her that her portion was the only one taken from the new can. If just one girl had taken seconds from the new can, Angela might have been willing to run the risk but no one did. So she moved the beans around with her fork and pushed them to the sides of the plate. "Angela, you haven't touched your green beans," Daddy said. "I'm too full," Angela said, assuming she would merely be deprived of dessert. "It was too big a helping."
"But you didn't eat any, did you? No one's leaving this table til Angela eats her beans, every one of them." Angela sat silent for a whole ten minutes. Everyone else was silent too, not looking at her, she could tell, though her own eyes looked straight ahead, but exchanging with each other sneers meant for her. They seemed to her to be talking about her silently to each other saying how much they despised her. Even Daddy? Even Daddy. She thought she could stand it, but she couldn't. It was just too much. Finally she crammed all the green beans into her mouth and swallowed them at once. She could feel them go down into her esophagus in one large lump. "Good girl," Daddy said. "Want some pudding?" Angela shook her head and ran from the table, without asking leave, to the toilet, where she tried unsuccessfully to vomit. Hours later she did vomit, though suddenly, and over and over and over. She was sure she was dying for the few minutes that were all she later remembered of the time.
The next morning's was green. She hardly felt strong enough to put it in her own hair but Dana said that was just because she needed something to eat. Dana brought her breakfast in bed. She was wearing a coat and carrying a large battered suitcase. When Angela asked her where she was going, she said just away for a few days. Then Angela asked how many days had passed since she'd got sick. Dana said no days at all; it was just the next morning. "Sunday then?" asked Angela. Dana said yes, and left. Angela woke again at dusk, feeling much better, though still a little groggy, and got up. She put on the freshly laundered but unironed bathrobe that was lying at the foot of the bed. She knew she should really dress but they'd make allowances. How would they know she wasn't still sick? She wasn't sure herself yet. The house was very quiet. She didn't hear the dinner sounds; it should have been about the hour unless it was earlier or later and everyone was outside. But usually she could hear what was going on outside.
In the empty room she began to be afraid. It was empty not only of girls but of many small objects, Daddy's fur pillow and rug, figurines, needlework. The fruit bowl and the flower jug had been taken from the dining room table. Angela walked through the whole house, through every room, and found all clothes and personal belongings gone though most furniture remained. There was food in the kitchen though. Angela opened some store-bought beans and ate them cold. After that she picked up the telephone | ||||||
I keep a piece of paper margaret bolesI keep a piece of paper she would write to me | ||||||
the bone of the hawk rochelle hope mehrI do better approaching objects obliquely | ||||||
they lie together eleanor koldofskythey lie together side by side naked extended elegant arm the long well years without the other wondering of each other's minds was sufficient reply turning to one another and lips | ||||||
receiver. The phone worked all right, but she didn't know who to call. The truck was gone, and all the bicycles but one with a flat tire. But it was too late to go anywhere anyhow. So Angela went back to her room, and it was there on her dresser where she should have seen it as soon as she got up, a note from Daddy. "Dearest sweetheart, baby Angela," it began, and said they had to leave suddenly for reasons that he would explain when he saw her. The rent and telephone were paid; if she wanted to order groceries from the store, they would be paid for too, an account had been opened for her. Someone had to stay, Daddy said. He couldn't force her to, but he asked her to. Daddy asked her to stay. She could but obey.
The ribbons would stay in their drawer til his return. He said he'd return but time passed. How much Angela didn't know, she did not keep track. She passed her time watching television, and walking around the grounds. She kept expecting a passerby to notice her but no one did. She did have some company. They'd left her the cow and some rabbits and chickens. It was lucky she liked eggs. She thought about tying a ribbon around the cow's bell, after Daddy came back. | ||||||
anonymous rochelle hope mehrone day | ||||||
differentiation rochelle hope mehrwhy does it bother me? | |||||||
layers underneath margaret boleswhen we were four and five | |||||||
finality rochelle hope mehrit's strange how the eye is drawn immediately across the room before it held a bed | |||||||
the apricot tree mary laine yarberI cannot eat an apricot | |||||||
league of hearts temi roseleague of hearts
starts now
the league of hearts
the league of friends whose hearts I hold | |||||||
sea longing margaret bolesI'm going to sit and satisfy my sea longing | |||||||
ice mary laine yarberI was only out for cough drips and dinner, a desperate errand through lashing snow. But ragged and achy. I have sloughed home to the wrong house, two stories of mustard clapboard and a mailbox with one name newly scratched away. Your kitchen spills saffron across twilight and snapping wind, nearly reaching the shadowed curb where I watch. I can't see the table of thick knotted oak but still know the cobalt stoneware you have laid at its far end, the last dish not crunched underfoot. I paw muck from my nose as you light candles of evergreen on a side board, swirl cinnamon into steaming cider, and gaze out a window at spiteful flakes that whorl wisps of asthma into my choked lungs. Chill pierces my coat as steam wafts from the pot where you stir chicken into chowder. My eyes, swollen and glazed, weakly follow licks of firelight on your sable hair and when your head lilts and shoulders sway I know the long climbing stretch of Chopin is about to make you weepy, though all I hear is the soft clank of a street light swinging against the tap of flakes. I long to thumb the tears that sear your cheeks no longer mottled and bruised, but you don't believe promises sworn on the unsure light of stars. | |||||||
and our children margaret bolesand our children | |||||||
love eleanor koldofskyonce upon a time there was a beautiful
the end | |||||||
love me today eleanor koldofskylove me today, not tonight
love me in the daylight | |||||||