April 12-18, 2004: Karen Swank-Fitch and Bridget-Rose Lee

Karen Swank-Fitch and Bridget-Rose Lee

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Bio (auto)

Karen Swank-Fitch is a poet and educator currently teaching middle school students in San Jose, California She is the moderator of an on-line writing group, “Write On Writing Group” and the editor of an on-line poetry magazine, “a poetry rag ” Besides small press publications, poetry journals and on-line poetry magazines, a sampling of her work can be found in A Woman’s Place, and Brown Bag Anthology Her family consists of husband Joe and cat named Orlando
Visit Karen on the web:
http://home.earthlink.net/~swankfitch/
http://home.earthlink.net/~swankypoet/

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

Secretly, I know My Name secretly, i know my name is amelie it comes from the twigs of my family tree the outermost edges where genetics and associations are never questioned some of the family swear that amelie is short for amnesia a condition that’s present in our roots and cambium our memory loss is just below the surface of the bark implanted in our reproductive tissue. Intervention jezebel spoke to me, her tone was low and umbered she carried with her a carving, an idol of worn-down worship it’s features were tatty; it’s arms had been forfeited in a moon dance of pagan fertility she spoke to me of first wives and untimely lovers of lilith, sarah and the forlorn ruth she whispered and wailed; torrents of tears she’s misunderstood, her reputation sullied jezebel left the idol upon my threshold in a bed of wheat wings and tarnished husks she disappeared, singing a hymn of whimsy and rhetoric praising the nature gods of ancient civilizations. The Fragrance of Curry i am a pomade of curry, archaic indian, ancestrally anointed saturated with cleaved garlic-i am crushed and pragmatic hand milled to face-powder, made-up with mascara i assume to be primary; the importunate part of dinner making troublesome and persistent, listen, i am entreating, fending off the rancid i am part of the over all, not an afterthought sauce ladled in conclusion i am basal, conceived and ambrosial embellishing meats, flesh, vegetables i am béchamel, thick with butter, flour and cream i am cumin and coriander; i am turmeric and timing i am relishing i am wearing my crown of spikenard my rose-purple himalayan garland of perennial herbs i am doused in powder; i am sleeping on a berth of rice i am aphrodisiac.

Bridget-Rose Lee
leerose@effernergy.com

Fine Thai Cuisine Fine Thai Cuisine Between tofu legs Wobbles weakly As clear as each strand of hair, I can See through a woman Soak her finest spores, I am a thorough Charmer But it’s not enough On their gentle plates Served to me in Twenty-seven spices Horapa, dark-skinned A sweet-smelling basil, (they are all basils) And released only when in Full steam, Ga-Prow Tastes different from Horapa, Only Manglug is sweet And pepper; What the rest of the world is Missing, on their continental breakfasts Are spices Black, white or palegreen Experience can count seeds By glance alone, though Black is surprisingly milder, more Aromatic than white, leaving Green peppercorns A taste of their own; Fishnets swung from stilts Get hot, I realise with Ten edible chillies, Not all are chewable My lips thus bee-stung Gum-sore Next dusk; The literal land overflows With whole cloves, Smashed, chopped, oiled and Later foul-smelling farts Who go on to publish their bulbous lives, dead Against invisible labours; I say I want More, Plus I never see shallots as add-ons I give them all Their place, At least admitting I like it hot; Lemons are simple Yet refreshing As Spring’s grass: I note one as coarse The other softer, long-stemmed, Our friends far north Used to cinnamon, nutmeg, bay leaves, cumin, mint, and the fetishists Cardamom (India) and Sesame (more often than not, Chinese) Spice marriages are treated with ginger Where they are consumed Sometimes partially – But Spring’s wives Lose their cool, To seasons Fickle everywhere And anywhere! If not choice choked Palates of tropical fruits tingle Tender, Floated on bamboo Or warm-wrapped in pandan, Almond or slit, served Enticed With attitudes of lime – There’s zing in dessert Alone, Whollops of mandarins, Citrons and bevies of them Honeyed too young; But what makes me stop Short of twenty-seven, I came and saw Flower beds of jasmine Picked in the evening Before she opens – Scent of a woman Drinking, sweating and Preparing herself, For this I would pluck yellowing leaves And show them to my girl. Chances Hotels, beaches, car parks at the beach But not multi-storeyed, driveways, alleyways, At gateways, in between goodbyes, but nothing said; Cinemas, in between galas, operas; step out It’s fair weather, alone or stranded, in the rain after The drizzle, it started with a nuzzle, without expectation, With child or unborn or born still, or still born In spring, summer, autumn and prolonged into Winter, wistfully uncannily it’s splitting image Of that one, the next resembling several, how funny; With seasons come trend and taste comes flavours; nowadays Leave little choice but more room for freedom, and least of all Special, so you know what to do, in a moody mouldy motel; It’s not like the song, no one turns up and you are all packed to go Somewhere, but like every ballad there’s bound to be A running chorus, over and over, reality speaks But birds no longer sing; and one liners motioned into Plates, chairs, tv, and when more than once The children-you know hotels, beaches, car parks at the beach But not multi-storeyed, driveways, alleyways, At gateways, how much do we believe we are just Lucky to be alive and talking? Playing By Myself No one will play with me this morning I am bored as the mountain Before I’d hop into something raincoat, jump into The fridge, limbs and mouth wide apart Ski down slippery slopes Till a stump forces me to turn cartwheels I practised and pushed, perfected even my thumb To peak or break at the bottom of the bough I could move as the jellyfish, a cool Sting could turn a lifetime, so says The fluorescent lights, Caught by my goldfish radars zooming Into the horizon of the four walls, landing finally On the cold scope, Unable to distract from the inscription Of pain onto pain It was a decade and few years of Great snow, I was trim as a wild hare, atrophied skin Hanging on brick will Some years the harvest was slough, some years Vomited misty fog; I made sure to check with The lake’s mirror Consulting with the stars warring to escape >From inside my silver head Through my vein-embedded eyes – Then from the great bowl Slowly I traipsed Fresh, tender, rid of spine The lightest lettuce! I skied like a professional Those risqué years Motto to Polish the ski-stay low profile – Like Bobby Fisher, who could not play chess Without a reason I was a pro who could not play chess Unless I skied This eve of the eve of One more day My cat’s eyes slant some more, and still I see the great slopes call Whenever I stand in the shade Of the mountain While scratching at my buttocks I turned to my breasts One kiwi said something to the other I overheard something like this: Full for milk-breasts Condensed for desserts, Then in a hushed, familiar whisper Slim for slender, for slough Shushed into sty Bemused, I caught myself, eavesdropping I went into the study, the room with razor light Released from under my arms Chocolate milk, cheese and yesterday’s rice-wrapped Roll Roll, I say, roll Afterwards I bent over, on all fours Pick up stray hair of the dogs You came in, ask what’s up I smile nothing Just picking up. White Marble House At my mother’s house yesterday, I looked At the vegetables she grew foray way Beyond the green and almost into the White marble house There is not much land in The garden except for a small enclave A few tropical plants call home We share The water and air in its urban lush; Steal for a moment, the moment that hangs Free as if measured We share insect cries Through this thick of thin Depending how much I want to please, striking the verbal wick Though perilous, has never ignited As much peril as in my heart silenced.