July 25-31, 2005: James Pinkerton, Michael Pollick and Lori Williams

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Shepherds Swiftly Tilting Earthward (for Dylan Thomas) Earthquakes, tidal waves, continental sandstorms rage Sheep on Luna do not stop grazing on mushrooms On Earth mushrooms bloom and fade Gone are pyramids, Great Wall, Statue of Liberty Gone are wheat fields, cobalt seas, painted desert Gone Americas, Eurasia, Africa — where man began Shepherds watch and tears fall like broken streams that become Niagara Falls, Amazon, Congo, all vanish in oceans whirling No more elephants, turtles, ants No longer will lovers entwine under peach trees Freedom for prisoners of brothels, slave pens, and labor camps finally freed by obliteration Shepherds shiver though their dome knows no cold Man will travel to Mars, Alpha Centauri, the dark reaches of the universe Never again will she set foot on our Motherland My Mother Never Said No She didn’t scream no, when her virginal blood stained the back seat of his Chevy She didn’t utter, “I won’t” when her father told my father, “You will marry or be buried “ She didn’t argue, when what friends he allowed, told her a husband can’t rape his own wife She didn’t say, “Stop,” when my sister quit talking and screamed in her sleep She never said no When she lay bleeding and broken at the bottom of the stairs, she whispered, “Forgive him He loves us “

Modern Cuts for Modern Men His father ran the power company like a cheap Swiss watch, as the last of the cuts poured out blood and Mad Dog- mama’s precious blue-eyed drunk lay gutted and silenced, gutted and silence on Huntsville city property Olan Mills had no idea what they once captured on film, Tom and Vivian and their two small ideas for boys; each looking so bright and sober that morning, the combs finding no reluctance, no resistance, no defiance One would grow to be every father’s waking dream- a Marine so pulled and taut and inspection-ready,  drawing his service revolver so smoothly from its home one might never feel the sting The other would not show up in any more wallet-sized pictures, nor would he ever agree to pass the plate in church again, This other son would fail to keep his promises to God and country, finding himself mired in piss and Jack and shattered glass bottles His father would identify the body in his own sweet time, but the police said a homeless man was already in custody; some joggers found him sprawled over some battered suitcases, his one acceptable arm already pointed towards home. Cleft for me Four small whispers can now leave rehearsal, the last cigarette has been ground to ashes It was once important for us to kill some Negroes, no matter how many times they claimed to fear God- no matter how pretty their dimestore dresses were- no matter how late they were for choir practice In the whole of Birmingham 1963, freedom smelled a lot like gunpowder residue on the hands of Bobby Frank Cherry Four shadows from another mangled storm shelter can now share Cokes on hot summer revivals, and find Sister Henrietta’s eyeglasses for her While I draw this fleeting breath, When my eyes shall close in death, I shall fly to worlds unknown, and behold thee on thy throne Now is the day four little singers found their way back to the 16th Street Baptist church, after getting lost in another man’s smoke. Makebelieve Ballroom and when all that remains of our dimestore dances are scuffs on aching linoleum, I shall consider you carefully, and know that we were gods once this was how the rockefellers played it, all hot and close enough to the bones; we blew eight to the bar, eight to the bar, on blistered rugs and buckling storeroom floors and you were all fierce reds and polished whites, clapping and surging with the pulses of Dorsey, whirling and crackling with the promises of Miller, turning and wailing with the heat of the vacuums Today, I played the Dorsey once more, and as the needle danced back and forth on only a paper moon only a paper moon only a paper moon, I heard the creaking of the storeroom boards, and for one dying moment you and I were spooning, alone and invincible, in the dust of our makebelieve ballroom.

Bio

Lori lives in Brooklyn, NY with her son and cat The former is currently in Air Force Basic Training — the latter is not Most things in her life are not this black and white very often She prefers it that way Her poems have been published in numerous ezines and journals over the past 5 years, including The Melic Review, Snow Monkey, Avatar Review,  Urban Spaghetti, Big City Lit,  New Zoo Poetry Review and Poet’s Canvas, and most recently, Miller’s Pond and Falling Star Magazine You can read more of her work at http://loriwilliams.homestead.com.

The following work is Copyright © 2004, and owned by Lori Williams and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Last Requests Can Last Forever i .Destructive Tendencies, Sleep Paralysis with .Hypnopompic Hallucinations He wore blue jogging shorts and a white t-shirt–James Deanish with the cigarette pack rolled up He wasn’t too old for that at forty-six I used to sneak into his room, break his Kools in half while he ran the track each night–doctor’s orders ii .Borderline Personality Disorder, Histrionics, .Fear of Abandonment      The neighbor ladies gushed that he looked like Chad Everett As his daughter, I felt proud he was so handsome Children can be shallow, not caring much about how Barbie’s are bought, or new Easter bonnets or roast beef on Sunday’s iii .Panic and Anxiety Disorders, Insomnia For a moment, we though he was just laughing hard; head back, hands clutched to chest Seventies sitcoms were his thing–Archie and Meathead were arguing when we realized he was calling for help; soundless–mouth round and silent iv .Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Trichotillomania We didn’t know about aspirin, so I held a cool washcloth to his brow and remember his thinning, blond hair was stuck to his head in panic sweat, and the hopeful healing water I anointed him with He didn’t look like the actor then, and I didn’t care, it didn’t matter at all v .Hypochondria, Self-Mutilation, Guild Complex, .Substance Abuse, Eating Disorder Mom called for an ambulance and the dog licked his ear, like she did every morning to wake him She hid under the couch then, and I knew As the bell rang and the audience laughed and his heart exploded, I heard his last words, whispered to the air — don’t let me die vi .Manic Depression, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Ideation No one was listening but me I was just a little girl I didn’t know how. Perpetuity I once had a lover who whispered your breasts are white doves holding rubies in their lips I laughed and said, birds don’t have lips babe He was older, thought not quite May-December I was a summer storm; intense, urgent, with purpose, and he an autumn leaf, creeping along a curb or settled in a heap of russet and gold, serene in the beauty of ends I taught him things like how to fit two in a tub of bubbles and that undershirts worn under shirts were old-fashioned My fear that he would leave first made me run He tried to teach me that my eyes were bittersweet chocolate drops, my breath held the scent of a rose The moment is what matters, so be lifted by the wind and alight where you should be He said things like that as I tried to make his wardrobe hip and brushed off his whispers like those guys who dust for fingerprints, always hoping for something of importance underneath Two decades of seasons have passed I am now more leaf than storm, and he the peace of a late winter snowfall, silent under the motionless embrace of the moon My breasts are white doves with rubies in their lips, I whisper to the wind If only I had thanked him. Occhi de Pecora Agnus dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis Elbows perched on oilcloth, patent leathers set to dart if it squirted tears my way, he would teach me how to spear the orb with only two fork tines, like a gentleman Napkin a paper ascot at his neck, skin backlit by a sheen of sweat, he laughed at my revulsion-I am sure of it. The sheep’s head sat on a platter – a wooly sacrifice As forked pierced pupil, the faint, soft pop was a trumpet playing taps in a meadow; the plop between his teeth and smacking lips were bleats that ripped through the Caruso aria floating on the greasy, kitchen air I did not move; my feet held fast to the floor and I stared at my grandfather, eyes broken buttons closing tight on his sin, the end of adulation.

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