September 27-October 3, 2004: R.C. Perl and Ja’net Danielo

R.C. Perl and Ja’net Danielo

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Bio (auto)

R.C Perl lives in Wappingers Falls, New York She works for a non-for-profit organization that serves individuals with developmental disabilities.

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

Pyramid Clock I Ambulance Ruby pulses Red rings stain Christina says, “Stay Don’t go” An alarm sounds Telescope points skyward A swan pushes Leda as she cries On the screen she watches A Peace Passing Understanding Television splatters phosphorescent on the cathode ray tube In the book, letters grow immense A bible beats around eyes, leaving welts Words swell on the page: I am the resurrection and the life Send Lazarus He may dip the tip of his finger in water, and cool my tongue, for I am tormented in this flame An ambulance calls out with red and blue revolutions in lattice diamonds Sirens steam II The House She tried to survive in this house Aquarium gulps Spigots leak Drains clog Sweaters and socks shrink Clothes disintegrate in the dryer Horizontal rain fills a sorcerer’s circle Close the door Check the bolt Here no key fits a lock, wound too tight Digits flash on a puzzle’s face Mechanisms clot with time III The Deep The coast catches the seagull falling taking a captive in the sea cavern Distant land smears gelatinous into the horizon Granite clouds place a lid on the waterscape This time the riptide steals Undertow mugs below the surface Nurses shoes speak with short white squeaks on a tiled floor In the hall khaki walls dissolve faces as light constructs a white cell that locks brightly IV The Pyramid Breathing tube clamps down on her tongue A needle pinches as a voice instructs, “Count back from one hundred” At ninety-eight, a dazzling veil drapes Galaxies spray chemicals in the cortex Electricity dances on frontal lobes Diaphragm sticks Chest cavity contracts A rib cage stalls She tries to speak, sure she is dying Sinking into forgetfulness entering the underworld, a pyramid clock ticks Sculptured and inscribed sarcophagus closes Glyphs tell her story in marble Scarab beetle flees the serpent The great eye shuts.

Sea World The water tank was distant Bright summer shirts blurred around its edges I walked beside my parents, took careful steps on wooden planks I thought I might fall through A boy in a wheelchair rumbled past us, unsteadied the boards I stood still, and tried not to stare at his head, cocked to the side, thrown back, and his lips parted wide the deep pink of his gums, spittle gathered in foamy pools at the corners of his mouth I hugged a stuffed Shamu—its black fur, clinging to my chest, damp with sweat At the tank, trainers in sleek black suits fed fish to the orca, and my eyes wandered to a plank, and then a splash of blood littered with what?  Flesh from a child’s skinned knee? A clump of the sick boy’s gums? The sky seemed a vicious animal—unpredictable, ready to pounce I thought it might come unstuck, that it might drown me in its blue I climbed metal bleachers to watch the show eclipsed by what I now recall: that flash of pink, a stain, the useless scraps of some dead fish. The Alchemist I exhume the dead from shoeboxes, scatter them across a white lace tablecloth I sift through their remains: the red rosary my uncle bought in Italy, my great-grandmother’s flowered change purse It holds the mingled scent of soap and dusting powder, the fragrance of her dresser drawer Between thumb and forefinger, I massage the last dime my grandmother gave to me The oils of my skin mix with hers As I struggle to piece this moment with that thing, the dead stare back at me They wait for their history, hoping for gold this time And I won’t disappoint them Oil, powder, soap, a tangled string of beads, my pen, this paper I’ll make them better, more important, than they ever were in life. My Grandmother Visits My Grandfather in early Spring, when the grass is a green-green and the wind, a warm balm on her face and legs She kneels, presses fresh lilacs into my grandfather’s chest The hem of her dress brushes his name and she touches the letters in a way only the dead can understand My grandmother needs fixed stone and ordered rows She needs crevices to trace with fingertips, and wind to pull at her skirt, muss her hair— touch her back.