24 December 2006

I Sing the Body Mediocre

Is it ok to not want world peace?
To recognize that the compromise required would
Cheapen ideals?
Is it all right to want to hold on to
What makes me Black
And her White
Even while we fight
And not want the gray water
After the brushes are washed?

Maybe it's wrong to mulch and guard
The roots of my belief
And care about the origins of my thoughts.
Maybe I can't cram an African foot
Into a Made in America shoe.
Maybe I should be
Colorless, odorless, tasteless
Carbon monoxide
Slowly, silently killing character in the garage.

Or maybe, John,
I don't want to Imagine a world of harmony.
Maybe I want to be free
To hate
If hating defines my love.

Mental Health

If we believe in worldview psychology to its fullest extent, then we have to believe that true mental health comes only with a perfectly rational worldview. Since we are Christians, we must believe that the only rational worldview is the one supplied to us as believers. That means that the only people who can come close to mental health are Christians. Muslims, Jews (of the Jewish faith), agnostics cannot have true mental health, no matter how sane they may try to appear.

18 December 2006


Love doesn't mean
A protecting arm
Rushing to alarm
Sheltering and warm
Sometimes love means
Knitting the rope that hangs.

Love doesn't mean
Completing the whole
Bubblewrapping the soul
Fulfilling a role
Sometimes it means
Acid on a calloused hand.

Love doesn't mean
Amaranthine supply
Being the nice guy
Stifling the cry
Sometimes it means

The Wife

She burrowed to be next to him
Under the torn quilt they had brought when they first got married,
Through the brown hairs left by the toy dog now barking at night at prey he couldn't attack,
Over the hollow place in the mattress that was never turned as often as it should have been.
She laid her head on his shoulder and sighed.

Career, finances, groceries, laundry, her role as mother
And as daughter.
The ideas tumbled noisily like lottery numbers in a plastic bin.
"I wish things could be like the first year we were married," she whispered,
Her head on his chest.

He snored,
And she smiled with familiar contentment.

17 December 2006


from Ain't Milton: a chapbook of poetry

Father, daughter
Side by Side
Stories told, prayers said,
Under a common blanket.
Cradled by his chest, her preschool eyes weighted with the day’s discoveries.
He sighes.

“I have to write a poem.”
“What’s a poem?”
He smiles. “A poem is…”
He tries to capture it.
“A poem is a written bunch of feelings.”
“Like ‘awake’/ ‘asleep’?” She laughs and mimics both.

“I’ll let you read some I’ve written.”
“You’ve wrote a lot?”
“Quite a few. A poem is a written thing that tries to…”
“Is that you?” Her toes touch his leg.
“You’re very warm,” she says as his chest pillows her head and she enters
The hazy contentment of new sleep.
Inexplicable perfection.

I offer you this…snapshot,
Nothing more.
Do with it what you will.
A shimmering moment of a father’s life…
Blurred by songs sung to a hairbrush,
Ballet recitals,
T-ball games,
School plays,

Life and love are in the moments:
The microscopic flecks of inexplicable perfection.

13 December 2006

That is Not What I Meant at All

Published in Subtletea.

If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”
T.S. Eliot, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"

And she set her teacup down on the table at the O.K. Cafe.
She said nothing.

I knew I had passed the dagger, handle first, her way,
And face-forward turned my back.

(May the lady have a heart
With a side of bitter dipping sauce?)

She sipped again.
Nervous, not thirsty.

"Maybe you misunderstood." I made
Odd noises on the diner vinyl.

(The clock is ticking loudly
Like a sharpening guillotine.)

"I meant, like friends..."
And she rose and left the room.

04 December 2006


There are triangular shards of reality
Which fall across my aperture
Cut me like glass thrown by
A laughing dwarf into the fire in his night
Of debauchery
Dig for my blood
The treasure of what
Is real
Or they slice, gently and brutally like a dissected onion
Cut thin for the microscope
Exposing layer after layer
Fear is only
Hungover anticipation
It hurts
Argosy forward, moving
Pink holy water

And the pills--
The creative baby of my mind
Lovely new born fetus
Lulled to sleep
Into a anesthetized bliss of heavenly sterile dreams.

30 November 2006


from Ain't Milton: A Chapbook

Across the street from the church,
The neon sign is bleeding red—harsh and raw.
Inside the chapel the flash is turned to art as bits of red melt
With stained glass blue of Christ the Shepherd.
Shades of lavender and purple,
Imprints of a kingly garment.

The chapel is silent as the teacher sits among the shards of light.
Red like the pen of judgment dances with the blue
As cool as peace, or the lines of college-ruled paper.
He reflects the light as he reflects on his work.

And the lights throw the question,
“Do you love them?” across the pews into his lap.
The papers are graded.

Do you love them?
Curriculum is complete.

Do you love them?
The professional boundaries are upheld.

Do you love them?

“Tell us you love us.”

A thousand students past, current, and yet to come
Line the beams of light, dancing among them,
Posing their final exam.

One simple question: 0 or 100.

Answer correctly and every mistake is forgiven,
Wrongly, and every lesson is futile.

“Do you love us?”

The defining colors cut deeply.
The red pulses across his hands, down his arms.
That’s not the question I studied for.
Never in an education class was that objective covered.

Sometimes between the task and the reward lies the mission forgotten.
Sometimes the colors are blinding.
Sometimes the prism of our tears diffuses the colors like stained glass.

I am much unlike the Shepherd.
Forgive me, for I am weak…
Forgive me, for I have fallen many times under your gaze…
And it hurts to let you go.

But, even though if graded on my perfection I would need to repeat the class,
If graded on the final question,
My valedictory answer would echo through this chapel into the Shepherd’s ears,
And my resounding “yes” would be my only commencement gift.

24 November 2006


The railing, with the vines tendriling at the ends,
Was old and black iron, paint peeling.
The bolt which held it to the mortar
Lay in a hole twice its size.
No one noticed it at the cement steps
With the brick columns.
It was just a railing—unobtrusive.

Until, leaning on it, I gave way
And fell as it released its hold,
And I sat in the leaves by the porch
And held a railing.

And so it is with things on which we lean.
Their usefulness
And simple beauty
Are not recognized
Until we fall.

On Finding God with Savannah

Do You feel the way I feel,
Now as I cradle her, her first breaths
Inhaling a new world?
My new creation fidgets,
Restless for the newness of what I find worn.
Do You feel the inexplicable
That I, the first human she has ever seen,
Imprisoned by her amethyst eyes,
Feel tonight?
Do You feel this ache which feels like heartbreak
In its depth,
But richer and more hopeful than the first day of
When I cry?
Do You treasure me this way
When You hold me?

This is a prayer
For all of us fatherless
And for all of us failed fathers
That You will hold us
Closer than I hold her tonight.

17 November 2006

Not Waving But Drowning

by Stevie Smith
Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he's dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.


In the creative process, we are often concerned with editing as we go. This can be a very limiting process. In creativity we are imitating God. God did not say "It is good," until the entire process of creativity was over. Waiting to decide if a piece is good or not until the piece is over is a way to get down deep to the pureness of what we are artistically trying to communicate.

16 November 2006

Presuppositional Counseling

Most modern cognitive psychologists recognize that Christ's words of "as a man thinks so he is," are true: man's feelings do fundamentally stem from his cognitions. What we fail to recognize often, however, is that cognitions stem from our world views...our presuppositions. Do we all ways think in line with our worldviews? Of course not. There are fundamental things we know that we do not always consciously think. That doesn't mean we don't have the world view; sometimes we just don't believe it.

For example, I may have a world view that presupposes that there is an omnipotent God who will provide for my needs. I believe this. I trust in this. It is in my foundation. But when I am pressed with fear, the thought may come in my mind, "I have to solve this problem myself." This cognition leads to the affective reaction of fear. The problem often is not that we have the wrong world view, but that our cognitions don't fall in line with it.

14 November 2006

Date of Expiration

originally published in The Georgia Guardian

“The patient in room 363 has expired.”
The words coming from the nursing station were bland and clinical as the report was filed on the phone.
It’s funny how we remember stupid little things from important times. All that Lisa could think of was that the nurse’s shoes needed to be cleaned. They were scuffed on the top. She centered in on that. They needed that white stuff her mother used on patent leather shoes. It would take care of that.
The body in room 363 had expired. The family, crying, filed out of the room. Lisa didn’t go in.
“Should I put this out?” Montgomery, her college friend, asked motioning with her cigarette hand.
“I don’t think so.” She had almost forgotten about Montgomery, who drove her there. Lisa thought she looked out of place in the hospital – too trendy.
“I don’t want to get in trouble or nothing.” The girl put her cigarette out.
“I don’t think you will.” Montgomery frowned uncomfortably. She belonged in some artsy coffee shop discussing life’s problems, not dealing with them. “I guess you want to leave.”
“Not really. I mean, when you’re ready. You don’t need to be around here too long.”
“I guess not.”
“I need to take you out tonight. That’s what you need.”
Lisa smiled. She looked out in the parking lot. People were doing normal things, getting into cars, getting out of cars. Some people were even laughing. She went home.
“Do you want ‘Arsenio’ or ‘The Tonight Show’?” Seth asked that night.
She came into the living room. “It doesn’t matter.” She sat next to him on the sofa hoping he’d put his arm around her. He didn’t.
“Aren’t you going to put the little scarf thing on?”
“The wig got too hot.”
“Why don’t you just put the little scarf thing on?”
“I don’t feel like it.”
“What if the kids see you? Won’t it scare the kids?”
“The kids are asleep.”
“Oh.” He put his arm around her, not too tightly. Arsenio was whooping.
“Eileen expired today.”
“I said, ‘Eileen died today.’”
“I’m sorry. Was that the support group leader?”
“No, that was Pam. Eileen joined when I did.”
“Oh. Have you felt sick today?”
“No. I don’t feel sick after the first week. At least not nauseated. Did you know they wear gloves when they put that stuff in the capsules? It can’t even touch your skin.”
“How do you feel?”
She couldn’t find a word to describe how she felt. She felt exhausted, but she felt like little engines were running inside of her constantly. She felt numb. She felt like she would pass out – or explode.
“Fine,” she said.
He kissed her forehead. He looked as if he were going to kiss her face, but he kissed her forehead. “I love you.”
“I know.”
He got up and went into the kitchen. When he stood up, he knocked over a tennis racket that he had just had restrung. Her foot pushed her son’s toys away, pushed them over near the fallen racket. A little pile of toys. Seth seemed so young.
When he came back, she stared at him. He looked like he was in high school. He was 25, but he looked like he was in high school.
“You look like you’re in high school.”
“What?” he laughed.
“I said you look like…”
“Not really.”
“I was just thinking you look really young.”
“We’re both really young. You’re younger than I am.”
“I guess so.”
After a while she nudged him to wake up. Arsenio was off. A local talk show was on. The guest was a woman who collected candy bar wrappers. There must have been a hundred of them. She said she liked the wrappers more than what was inside. Lisa turned off the television. She picked up Seth’s shoes. She’d put them in the closet tomorrow. She set them back down. She thought of the scuffed-up shoes. Seth moved toward the bedroom.
“Coming?” he asked.
“Seth, if I die, I want to die.”
“You want to die?” He looked serious.
“No, I want to live. But if I die, I really want to die. I don’t want to expire.”
He looked confused. “You won’t die.” He kissed her forehead and went to bed.
She picked up the racket to put it away. She went to the window, opened it, and looked out over the city. Cars were still moving. People were laughing. Things were going on as they always had. As they always would. Smiling, she hurled the tennis racket out the window.


I was five, and
I colored everything with black…
The barn, the tree, the people—
All was black.
The sky was black.
The grass became ebony too.

My mother had tact
And hated to criticize,
But she worried
And lamented the drawings each time I brought them home.

“Why does he color in black?” she asked my grandmother as she pondered
My pathology.
“Ask him,” my grandmother said.

She did.
And my response:
“Everyone else took the other crayons.”

Batter my Heart Three Person'd God

by John Donne

Batter my heart, three-person'd God, for you
As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend;
That I may rise and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend
Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new.
I, like an usurp'd town to'another due,
Labor to'admit you, but oh, to no end;
Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,
But is captiv'd, and proves weak or untrue.
Yet dearly'I love you, and would be lov'd fain,
But am betroth'd unto your enemy;
Divorce me,'untie or break that knot again,
Take me to you, imprison me, for I,
Except you'enthrall me, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.


"Batter my heart, three-personed God" John Donne

When I first heard, "Batter my heart,"
I thought of shrimp
The way my grandmother would make them
--Fried shrimp from Savannah--
With a fine coating of flour, sealing in the flavor,
And a little salt and pepper.
Crunchy but still juicy.

Or the way my mother would fry fish
With corn meal so that the aroma of cornbread
And seafood mingled together sharp and sweet and filled the house
With anticipation because "we're going to have a fish-fry,"
And all arguments are put on hold for food the way they do it only down South.

All this batter would indeed affect a heart.

And then I realized that batter wasn't meant that way.
It wasn't a prayer for coating.
It was a prayer more brutal.

I never expected until halfway through the sonnet
That a hostile takeover of soul
Could be more beautiful than those memories.

13 November 2006

Isaac Beemer

Originally published in Calliope

Once I had a friend. But we went to different colleges after high school, and I knew nothing would be the same. Now, I am alone; a dissected “we.”

Isaac Beemer closed his brown spiral-ring journal and placed the cap on the felt tip marker. He ran his hand through his curly black hair and across his slender, unshaven face in an attempt at motivation. His morning free time had passed, and if he didn’t hurry, he would not be in his first period classroom ten minutes early.
“Always be punctual, Isaac,” his mother told him when she straightened his tie, as if the Greyhound bus fare were less expensive for immaculate dressers. “And try to find a descent synagogue,” she tried to whisper above the shouts of boarding passengers. His Catholic father had heard her anyway, but had merely winked at Isaac, shrugged his shoulders, and said, “A mother’s advice is not to be tampered with.” Once at school, Isaac, the freshman, had conveniently forgot the last half of the counsel, but religiously held to the former.
For this reason, he shut his journal even though he wanted to continue writing. “You will write?” Michael, the object of his current passage, had asked him with a handshake at the graduation ceremonies.
“You’ll get a letter from me every week. I promise.”
“I’m not talking about letters, man. I mean write. You know, like a writer writes. You’ve got to keep up with it. You’ve got it man.”
That was another piece of advice, and in the early morning hours before first period calss he fought to uphold it, for Michael’s sake more than anything else.
Usually Isaac rode the bus to school, but as he put on his pleated gray tweed pants and white oxford shirt, the bicycle which now served as a hat and clothes rack in the living room demanded, in what seemed to Michael’s voice, an exposure to the October air. As he rode from his small, rain-washed duplex apartment to the campus, he thought of his parents and of Michael and of everything he had left behind to attend the cheapest college in the state. He glanced back only once as if Michael were behind him, racing. He pedaled harder and harder, burying his face in the pages of the wind. He felt slight twinges of pain down his skinny thighs and between his jutting shoulder blades, but he pedaled still harder, hoping to be the first student in the classroom, the first one to define his territory.
When Isaac turned away from the hallway into room 213 of Connor Hall, he felt terribly awkward; he was not the first student in the room. The tall, slender girl with porcelain skin and hair like hay bundled in a braid behind her head had already staked her claim, marking her boundaries with her large straw pocket book and gingham book bag. Her paisley skirt, spread over the entire width of the seat, completely hid her legs, only exposing her tiny ankles and, in brown sandals, the most slender, the whitest feet, like those of a doll he had been forbidden to touch in his grandmother’s china closet. Isaac sat in the very back chair on the left side of the classroom, ran his fingers over his dark black curls, and stared for what he knew must have been two or three days. She did not look up, but continued to read her pages and pages of yellow notepaper through her round-frame, gold-wire glasses. In a mousy voice she said, “I saw Dr. Gillawater earlier, she should be in any minute.” Isaac only stared. The girl, this pale sliver of life, had been in class before, but he had never been alone with her.
Dr. Gillawater arrived ten minutes late that day. She murdered her cigarette in the ashtray at the door, heaved a portfolio on the desk, and laid her notes on the lectern. Isaac thought how much she looked like a gloomy elf with her short, paunchy body and white, boyish haircut with straight bangs. After a few minutes of deliberation she began the psychology class. The session covered the young adult stage of life, and Dr. Gillawater spoke as if the spirit of the stage had fallen back into the cobwebbed crannies of her psyche. Her face contorted itself periodically to accommodate her false teeth.
Isaac didn’t listen for long. He began scribbling on his notepaper, dreaming of home and feeling cold. Occasionally, he looked at the girl with the white feet. She seemed about as interested in the class as he was, but continued to make notes on the yellow paper. Once she glanced his way, and he thought that if she had looked a moment longer, he would have seen her smile.
Not until he cleared his books off the desk did he see it on the wooden desktop, etched between obscenities and memoirs of forgotten lovers:
He looked for Dr. Gillawater’s eyes of authority. She had already left the class. He took his pen and carefully wrote beneath the question:
“YES, I AM.”
Isaac’s schedule endowed him with two periods of “profitable study time” between his psychology class and his next class, history. This period of time was the longest of the day. He rarely used the time to study; he studied during the long night hours that seemed to smother him in darkness. Sometimes he occupied his free periods with writing. Usually he spent the time in restless limbo, ambling around campus, waiting for class. Today he found himself in the library.
For Isaac, the library was a fascinating place. With its plush easy chairs and rich variety of magazines, videos, and microfilm, the building was a frequent refuge for him, a time-killer’s fantasy. He walked past the plexiglass sound-proof rooms to the book stacks.
The girl in the psychology class was named Reba – Reba Hartley. He discovered that by investigating a yearbook from the year before. He stared at the picture for a while before returning the book to its shelf.
He went to the bookstore to find a card for Michael but found nothing he wanted or could afford. The only customer in the store, he felt awkward walking out without making a purchase. He picked up a long, pink eraser and set it on the counter in front of the lady with a bleached-blonde beehive. “That’ll be forty cents, honey.” The coins danced across the counter. “What’s your name, darlin’” she asked between smacks of gum and register rings.
“Pardon?” Isaac blushed.
“I said, ‘what’s your name?’ I haven’t seen you around here before.”
“Isaac. I’m a freshman.”
“Isaac. Cute name.” She ran her eyes down the length of his lean body and back up again. “Jewish?”
“Half.” The plastic bag felt slippery between his fingers.
“Take it easy, Isaac Freshman.” She winked. “Come back and see us.” She patted her hair and snapped her gum. Once outside the door, Isaac threw the bag away and crammed the eraser into his pocket.
Isaac wandered Connor Hall down vacant corridors, absorbing bits and pieces of lectures. He read the announcements on the bulletin board; he straightened his hair in the reflection of a display cabinet; he walked to one end of the hall and sipped water from the water cooler. A half hour later he left Connor Hall and went to the cafeteria.
Isaac stumbled through the back entrance and examined the crowd. Often he would come here and watch, hoping to find characters he could write about someday. No heads turned when Isaac entered the room, and no heads turned as he walked between the tables of the music majors (“Are you sure about that? I thought it was ‘La la lala la la dee…’”), the English majors (Of course ‘Mending Wall’ shows a repression of homosexual tendencies…” “That’s the most ridi—“It’s all Oedipal…”), and the education students (“The discipline stuff they teach you never works when you get into student teaching…” “I know; Piaget never taught a class…”). All of the tables were closed in chattering circles except one in the far front of the building. It was empty. He continued to meander through the crowd of handsome hunks and their beautiful leeches as he approached the table.
He was almost there when Reba entered from another direction and settled down at the table with her straw pocket book and gingham book bag. Isaac backed away. He turned in search for another table, but only one other wasn’t filled – the table where Dr. Gillawater sat staring out the window, drinking her soup, her teeth on a napkin by her bowl. She seemed as morbid now as she had first period. Isaac went back to the library and re-read his history assignment in a sealed-proof room.

He didn’t write the next morning. He lay in bed, thinking. “You will write?” He could feel Michael’s words scratching at his chest. “You will write?” He pulled the sheet over his head. “You will write?” I can’t write, Michael. I don’t have anything to write about. I’m not doing anything; I don’t have a soul to talk to. I wake up in the morning, come to school, go home and watch the paint peel. I can’t even find a job. What am I supposed to be writing about? Romance? Lots of chances for that: a woman in the bookstore winked at me yesterday. I’m just like you; girls just fall at my feet. There are no new people in my life since I left home. Except ---
Reba was the first student in psychology the next morning, although Dr. Gillawater’s portfolio occupied the first seat. He took his seat in the back and watched her. She polished her glasses and organized her notes.
He was opening his text for class when he saw it – a continuation of yesterday’s conversation.
“YES, I AM.”
Then the following:
Isaac added:

The following day, he checked his desktop and found another message:
He put his pen tip on the desktop to add something to the string of correspondences, but he couldn’t think of anything to write.
“Loneliness.” The word from the lecture knocked his head upward. “Today we will be discussing this phenomenon of the young adult stage of life.” Dr. Gillawater’s steadfast expression of disinterest remained, but for the first time during the quarter she left the lectern without speaking. “Recently, I flew alone to a convention on various aspects and contemporary issues in psychology. I was amazed by the alarming statistics on loneliness in America. According to leading psychologists, the population most confronted with loneliness is the eighteen to twenty-five range. I would like to hear your opinions on this.”
Isaac wasn’t sure if she really wanted their opinions or if her dentures were slipping and silence was her only choice. No one in the class breathed. A boy with a ruddy complexion and thick arms was the first to speak. “I can see where they’re coming from. I mean, sometimes you just feel by yourself.” He paused and shook his head. “I mean, like sometimes I come to school, go to work, go home, go to school. It’s a cycle I go through. I don’t have a lot of time to make friends. You know what I mean?”
“That is the biggest joke I’ve ever heard,” laughed a girl with a blond ponytail. “The only reason these people…”
“What people?” Gillawater interrupted.
“These people that say they are so lonely. The only reason they are lonely is that they never do anything. If they’d get out and do something -- get involved with a club or something – they wouldn’t be so lonely.”
“Isn’t it possible to be lonely even if you belong to a group?” Isaac looked at Reba, the student who was always first in class, as she spoke. She took her gold-wire glasses from her eyes and placed them on her desktop. “I’ve been lonely in a crowd. The real reason people are so lonely isn’t because they’re not involved in stupid programs. The reason is that there are so few caring people around. And those of us who do have a little compassion, a little love, a little caring for the human spirit,” her voice wasn’t mousy anymore, “are too scared to reach out to other people in the same situation.”
Isaac ran his bony fingers over the chain of words etched in his desktop and smiled.
As soon as the class was over, Isaac left his books under the desk and followed Reba. In the hall, Isaac tried to speak. He succeeded in making a very loud ”um” which turned not only Reba’s head but the heads of two other girls and a basketball player. Isaac approached Reba; he stood remarkably close to her – so close he could see the small wrinkles in the corners of her eyes, just behind the gold rims.
“I liked what you said today.”
“Thanks.” He voice was mousy again. “It just makes me mad to hear people cut other people down that way. I know what it’s like to be alone.”
They both stood there a minute; then he looked down at his penny loafers. “Well, I just wanted to tell you that I really was behind you today.”
“Thanks. It’s not as simple as everybody thinks; good friends are hard to come by.” He was sure he saw her smile. “I’ve seen you in the cafeteria before. I started to speak, but…”
“Yeh. It’s a place I frequent occasionally.” He played with a ravel that hung from his shirt and thought of his stupidity.
“Well, I’ll see you tomorrow.” Reba walked away.
“Listen,” he said hoarsely as she left. “Would you like to have lunch today? I mean with me. I’m usually in the cafeteria around noon.”
“I’ll see you then.” She definitely smiled.
Isaac hit the air with his fist and laughed out loud as soon as Reba was out of sight. Finally he found someone. Was he jumping to conclusions? Well, at least he had someone with whom he could share lunch. He felt like he was swelling inside, as if he would emerge from his skin as if it were a cocoon at any minute.
He went back into the room to get his books. He was embarrassed to go back in at first, but no one was there. No one was there except Dr. Gillawater, sitting in the corner, writing on a desktop.

Scenes at the Counter of the Chinese Restaurant

They were probably illegals, aliens,
And they stood arm and arm
Romantically intertwined and speaking Spanish.
The smells of sweat and onions were laced inseparable.
His hair had not been washed in over a week,
And her roundness was doughy like a tortilla,
And they laughed to each other with coos,
And she fiddled with the ring which had been his grandmothers,
And they couldn’t make up their minds on how to spend their dinner allotment.
Or maybe they didn’t care about the details of their date
Because they were too distracted by their love.
The oriental—the Asian—immigrant behind the counter
Smiled and patiently waited for them to make an order.

And she watched them,
From behind them.
Fumbling with her Dooney and Bourke,
Trying to find her Visa card.
Annoyed by the non-Americans,
And a little jealous.

Off the Couch

As a child, I fell off the family couch
Onto a tossing sea
With my younger brother,
And we rolled as if drowning
Until my dad spoke
And, across the carpet waves
We pattered off to bed.

My Father,
I had fallen off the analyst's couch
Into the tempest of my own creation,
Crashing against the rocks of vanity
Until You spoke,
And made me walk on water
Toward my night of rest.

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