May 17-May 23, 1999: Opus Moreschi and April Cooper

Week of May 17-May 23, 1999

Opus Moreschi and April Cooper

Opus Moreschi


Opus Moreschi currently lives in Boston, but check back in a week or so Just leaving Emerson College, he’s facing the big bad world having done plenty of work in sketch comedy, poetry, video production,  and generally being tall He’s been published in Gangsters In Concrete and has read at the CMJ Music Festival’s Word Association 1998 He has 8 plaster busts of Jesus watching over his room.

The following work is Copyright © 1999, and owned by
Opus Moreschi and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

things to do when your she doesn’t show up

leave a message, 
trying to hide the anxious, nervous tone in your voice
Peek out the window
because she might be coming up the walk
with a embarrassed look
and a damn good excuse
Stare at a magazine
as if reading
as if to fool yourself
into thinking there’s something else you’re thinking about
Watch a tv show
but only one that she would like
in case she walks in
Try not to imagine kissing her
to the people you’re with
who ask you where she is
and pretend it doesn’t matter
and laugh
about it ha ha

Look out the window
again You never know

a bag of pretzels,
all of it,
until you’re pathetically scooping salt
from the bottom
in an attempt to try to get more
Start to call again
but hang up the phone
becuase you’d like to think
you have some pride
Stare at your hands
wonder why they’re cold
Write a stupid poem
in a list form
to try and get out
the feeling of fresh skin
lightly cut

Begin to call a friend
but hang up the phone
and curse yourself
what if she was trying to call right then?

Stare at your floor
becuase the room needs cleaning
admit it
it looks like you have the whole night now
it looks like you have some time to clean
to get something productive done

Continue to stare at your floor

think about the things you’ll say
when she finally calls
to make her feel bad
about leaving you all alone
to make her realize
how poorly you feel
to make her feel
like crap
like you

And then realize
that you’d never say it to her
becuase you’d don’t want to hurt her
because her smile is small and golden
because she blinks when her hair falls across her face
because her tiny body pulls tight against yours when you kiss
Give up
take off the clothes you picked out specially
climb into bed
pretend to sleep

When you least expect it, sleep
Do not dream.


My father had a rented boat
that he was taking out that summer I was six or seven
He was an expert captain
tacking back and forth
as the sails billowed over my head He steered past buoys with precision
And although we were going nowhere in particular
he went with a quiet intensity
I leaned my hand over the side
and tried to catch the water
as it passed through my fingers
but the water went to quickly
and it as all I could do to keep my hand from being swept along
and my father,
looking into the salty air
seemed more focused and peacefull
than I had ever seen him

“I used to have a boat like this,”
he sighed “Why don’t you still have a boat, Dad?”
I asked “You should get a boat Boats are fun “
“Boats are expensive,” My father said,
in his matter-of-fact voice “How come you had one before, then?”
I challenged “Well, when you’re young, and single,
you don’t have children or a wife to spend money on
so you have a lot of extra money
to do things you like “

I looked at his face
squinting into the sun
and leapt over the edge
I sunk to the bottom slowly
i never had to deal with the painful
problems of puberty and high school
and my father
taking my college fund from the bank
got him self a pretty nice 30-footer although I think it would have been nice
if he had named the damn thing after me.

For The 2% Who Get It

I think
of all the Jackson family
the one
with the most ironic name

April Cooper


April (from Arcata, California) sometimes probes the simple moments of relationship to remind herself and others of the beauty in a world that says love and pain are synonymous She has been published online and in print by PIF, PSH, Black Cross magazine,  The Matrix (a Humboldt State University women’s publication),  Yoni Ezine and Swan River Press.

The following work is Copyright © 1999, and owned by April Cooper and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

the blanket

sometimes, when we sleep,
the cuddly cotton of the sheets
and carefully chosen spread
are not enough to bring the old security,
the encapsulation of womb remembrances we must seek the otherness of sanctuary,
the comfort of wrapping fingers
about the ellipse of her breast,
wrist and elbow curving into her belly,
soft with old baby flesh
and new infatuation with her own roundness sometimes, home is really
where the heart is,
it’s walls made of the skin
spooning our own.

day of silence

or little
in the closet
where the towels
with the clean sheets
we’ll use
to replace
these ones
under our
naked sweat
the remnant
of fingers aching
thighs arching
lips sighing
with and without

michael’s skin

a fragile parchment
with soft gooseflesh etchings
hand writing his open doors
to my probing heart fingers,
his crumbling edges
draw back in careful
fear of decay before knowing
the intimate ink of self-knowledge,
the pale leaves of his book
read a gentle bed time story
as i snuggle close
and he tells me
we deserve heaven


tiptoe calligraphy

sketches of pointed
ebony rapture

possessive scratches
captured by
my paper lying
naked on your desk

I am exposed to your liquid
as you write this poem

I wonder
where your words end
and mine begin

my sex missed you today

as i sat writing about poetry
and Lucille’s words
reminded me
how woman i really am

i became swollen
with thoughts of exposed thighs
and your closed eyes
opening to this soft belly
where my children once rested

my fingers understudy
where your tongue and fingers
should be sitting
in this lonely theatre
of green couches
and old coffee tables

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