week of May 15-21, 2006
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Rosemarie Crisafi lives in Fishkill, New York She works in for a non-for-profit agency that serves individuals with disabilities Her poetry has been published, most recently, in Canopic Jar, Great Works, Brick & Mortar Review, Alba, Red River Review, ken*again, Whistling Shade, BlazeVox, Tattoo Highway, Lily, Wicked Alice, Pemmican, Avatar Review, Poems Niederngasse, Triplopia, and elimae Other poems have been accepted for future publication in Softblow and Snow Monkey.
The following work is Copyright © 2006, and owned by Rosemarie Crisafi and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Not a valentine,
not a cream filled chocolate,
my heart does not “go with Christ”
It is not a butterfly It is a fire hydrant,
either opened or closed Loosening the valve
with a yank and twist,
a vandal uncaps the pipe.
Hearts are yellow, red, or even black
Some gush “love.love.love”,
My lover is a big a wrench Try as I might,
I cannot stay in love too long.
Telephone Missile at The Point Of Detonation
He knows you are waiting.
You kill time as signals cross cables;
listen for a car door thump; for a floorboard groan beneath a heavy roof, you wait
You stay underwater, ascending too quickly
nitrogen bubbles in your blood Wires quiver with the news:
an automobile overturned in a culvert
Black rings grow concentrically
The dot at the center moves the detonation point
closer, reaching beyond the range hearing.
Hushed lunar wind, not really a person, shrouded
in peacocks, a red-eyed ghost hovers over the bed.
Bristles sweep the tank bottom Between tape grass and zebra nips, angelfish slip
Amid pumping and gurgling, male betas change
garishly, aroused by a tetra’s neon bands.
To see what is out of sight
a periscope rises, eyes roll and mouth opens.
She wants him to speak but he does not
With a hiss, metal teeth interlock A face narrows inside vinyl.
Edward Salem is a Palestinian-American currently living in Michigan This fall Edward begins his MFA in Writing candidacy at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago.
The following work is Copyright © 2006, and owned by Edward Salem and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
White young woman
as an attempt at art I
think successful walked into a coffee
shop wearing trendy everything: bronze purse
gorgeous turquoise blouse and white silk something
underneath, a slanted half-inch of it.
The attempt at art was her denim miniskirt
her prim, clean genitals touching open air
a denim belt, really, high on her waist
two inches thick, the shade of near
a clean, dark pink blemishless and
brave I think all
us men ate our
hearts in grief when in
ancient, even a century ago
if this stunt had
we would have been
in the right‚ to have
all of us.
Where I Did With the Ashes
people often dump them
in the wind, in the ocean
a faded smoke-like spreading
waste of a ritual
what I did with my dead was
(despite keeping her toothbrush
her wilted purple dress)
I poured her ashes
into a bowl and with a spoon
ate them, a dry chewing
I guzzled warm water
and finished my meal
not with consolation
but with resolve
oh, her ashes
went to the ocean