May 20-26, 2002: Anne F. Walker and Laura E.J. Moran

Bio (auto)

Anne F Walker’s books of poetry Into the Peculiar Dark, Pregnant Poems, and Six Months Rent She edited the anthology of poetry and poetic prose bite to eat place with Andrea Adolph Currently editing the critical anthology Intersections of Place and Literature with Margo Ponce, she is also on the editorial board for Kaleidoscope: An International Journal of Poetry (Palimpsest Press) and trying to find a home for her new poetry manuscript A Canadian/American dual national, she divides her time between Berkeley and Toronto
Visit Anne on the web here, here, and here.

The following work is Copyright © 2002, and owned by Anne F Walker and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

Modesto Poems 1 do you have a mirror with two colours? see the other side of the apartment–the window and sky beyond it the woman at the washing machine her hands and the man who walks in the living–room across the courtyard our lives are that small and touched by grace only in places like this immersion this side of raised grass ovals where flesh connects a link fuses and everything else slips off like clothes in an afternoon. 2 Modesto You There’s a very loud absence of sound passing between our two homes like a breezeway in a rainstorm You return to the ceaseless mull the chorus the white- wall of wash sound indistinct as unmarked faces that move thickly through down- town intersection edges. 3 Museum of Modern Art it starts clear and concise and as we walk the stair down names begin to blur like faces i hold your hand and your flesh wavers i can’t remember you, like a lover 17 years ago in a dry California valley, in the city of Orange along a freeway along which we sped in bed you remind me of him and then / i see i don’t know you. 4 1/11 raindrops on the clothesline hang like christmas lights my body is joined to yours under my nails the taste of the skin of your back. 5 edgin’: arms back pulled around your legs you have a strong desire to reach toward some edge again but you retract from it like tract homes like suburban hair and bad glasses like comfort and stability you walk into and close the door all safe behind you safe and safe you’re gone

Laura E.J Moran
lejmoran@hotmail.co

Bio (auto)

Laura E J Moran is the 1992 recipient of the Jean Garrigue Award She travels throughout the country and abroad touring and headlining at numerous universities, elementary schools, festivals, competitions, women’s organizations, literacy groups, coffee houses, churches, and nightclubs In addition, in 1992 Laura became Providence’s first Grand Slam Champion and in 1996, Seattle’s Grand Slam Champion She has represented both Seattle and Providence on various national teams from 1996-1998 For four years as vice-president of Projective Verse, Inc , she introduced children of all ages to the wiles of poetry and hosted the Providence 2000 National Poetry Slam Several of her pieces appear in such publications as Defined Providence, Revival: Spoken Word from Lollapalooza 1994, and Children Remember Their Fathers Her work was performed in collaboration with Words and Letters: RI Calligraphers and Poets and with Island Moving Company’s production of Out of The Box In 1999, she received the Mayor’s citizen’s citation for artistic contribution in Providence, RI She presently resides in Callicoon, NY and often reads in NYC

The following work is Copyright © 2002, and owned by Laura E.J Moran and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

Listen, Brother today I am a story in the foyer of this house where no one makes a fault without finding one Yesterday’s breakfast bowls, Nana’s mirror thrown, the hole kicked in the wall–I box the blame away I am no saint pinned between mother’s prayers I leave the dry body of God tacked above her bedroom door Today, I tear vespers from my saxophone, loud in hollyhocks, crowded parks, on the backs of trucks with road dusted cuffs Accompany me through the alleys to the bars where the fighters fight and the drinkers drink where the night is a bare bulb and I can see your face as a man I am not girl today, brother, braided and hidden in high grass as dad kicked your ass I collected your broken grace: blue wings torn from the moth body in my hands This morning doors opened themselves to me, bread overflowed the bread pan, Spring’s first crocus green to be born again cracked the hoarfrost Come .listen to the trees Ride your gentle spirit wild into the pines beside me, bury your old self extinct and be glad for it I am Quixote, Carmen unleashed upon her feet, flying Kneivel iridescent in spangles smacking the sky I am burning the kitchen, I am burning my clothes Listen brother–I am a story I am a song Tell Mama I ‘m gone. Degas’ Dancer lady by the bath bent double hair knotted nape inked out in wrist flash the line goes here the hand commands the eye nods the body begins on paper lady in the tub heron leg poised towel balanced her chorusline waist to the window open a dancer no longer in the wings Rich Lady Stealin’ Lipstick Two-faced and fading to the bone, our lady of perpetual deceit, wasting your own salt, perserving yourself beyond preservation .come out behind the circus screen You pretend to eat, shave, shit, slip counterfeit into an empty purse, believe your ethereal heels float above ground on the clouds of cocktail kindness, fling small talk, a thin scarf about your neck Recall Isadora Duncan? Her immortal scarf coiling silk about her throat, tightening the wheel as her convertible strikes mountain air at sixty, unable to steer, careening the Beverly Hills bend, a pas de deux with the wind, death’s demand binding to the bone I knew a dancer once—Melissa Honeybee, twirling in second-hand pink satin heels, thrift feathers swirling martinis in a row below, wrapping her divine wings about a metal pole She danced crazy eights, shed skin in laps, pranced dreams rouged and candied just out of reach But when she really danced–tight black against bare pine boards, against the blank wall of art or love or hunger –all her weight fell hard to the body, the flesh she carried could not fly and she loved it, played in the space between the fall The girl earned her footprints, fought gravity all the way– she knew, like matador and bull, in earth’s original skin –this is what we do No lift off, without coming back to where we were Paws caught in gravity’s trap, expect to crack like the creature you are Stuck to the windshield, pray to plastic christ but no cute tune about bluebirds will lift you into the air to save your technicolor bones Clicking heels won’t get you home– meanwhile, bleach your face, and pluck your hair, fart with fear for your stinking soul Keep pennies from petty theives while the Honeybee seeds her patron’s dreams then pockets cash to get her to West Palm Beach where she can dance for herself Let’s look straight: A body is a body after all as real as broken slats of fence, we all need repair, a tight screw now and then Give me your manicured hand, I know a place– a stage lit at the dark height of dark eyes, where you can slip candied as a honeybee into dance, or just watch and pet that which sleeps hackled and waiting under your bed.