Friday, November 14, 2014

Evelyn Posamentier


mother why are you dead so long
in a dream you were a hag
& not the sweet woman who neighbors remember
you threw a mastectomy toward me
i had the presence of mind to duck
sometimes i think you will be
where i never think of looking for you
the kind of error the dreamer relies on



quick.  it's late, grab your life
no more time for the cuts of frailty 
the lifeline support button worn about 
your neck was to protect you 
from the unknown, a barrier
between you & panic
why didn't you press it until 6 a.m.?
they would take you away, you knew
instead, when you fell, you collapsed
on your knees in tears & fatigue
with a fever supporting the all night
rebellion.  the next day you
are swollen & sore all over, after
your hideous battle with god



the gray tree thought it was winter
& lost its leaves.
after the funeral, the woman & her daughter
glanced out the window
while fixing tea, keeping busy.
cards to reply to, calls to return.
the tree, meanwhile, had nothing to do.
it got like that in january.
loitered like a fool without a muffler.
in the branches of the tree, the woman
& her daughter noticed, a few stupid pink balloons
got lost & bobbed from a pathetic
string, longing to return
to a child's birthday party.
what a thoughtful card from so & so
even after all these years.
the daughter couldn't help but agree.
the days ended abruptly.
january was no friend to them.
each morning the dumb balloons tried
to befriend the tree.
each morning the woman paused at the window
would you look at those balloons, that's impossible.
the daughter couldn't help but agree.
but one by one, the phone stopped ringing &
the last of the condolence cards
was answered.



tycocin in the bird

tycocin & the forest

tycocin turns its head

tycocin at sunset

tycocin sees the march

hears the march

oh joy

what can it mean?

tycocin in the quiet

tycocin in the world

tycocin is the bird

the forest turns its head

tycocin knows they're coming

tycocin means to help

the sunset sees the march

this sweet march of tired

citizens, they march

to sweet music, oh joy

one must not make noise

in this deadly forest

tycocin in the bird

who watches, hears footsteps

tycocin is the world

the forest knows they're coming

but will do not a thing

these citizens, they march

to sweet music, tycocin

is the bird who watches

the sweet music walking

toward the mouth

of the forest, sweet music

the citizens enter the whale

tycocin is the bird who

watches the world & the whale

& the citizens swallowed

in the sweet lungs

of the forest, the blood

will remember, the forest

will bow its head

tycoon is the bird

lay down stones

on the path taken



the cpr instructor mentions 
it takes only one hour to freeze
to death.  later i ask jeeves
to fetch the record-breaking
temp stats on the web
for minsk, first week
of december, 1941
so very far
from your vienna
so very far
from us grandmother
what is the latitude
of minsk?
what surprise
could there be?



i am twilight.
my switchblade teeth would
take a bite out of my birth
certificate.  somewhere outside
my real name lies ready to pounce.
the teeth made it into a small square
of the paper, 45 seconds
on the local news, homeless man
loses gang fight, falls
backward down an elevator
of a crack shack, impaled.
my private death without a name.
tell them i was twilight

(c) Evelyn Posamentier


No comments:

Post a Comment