Ju1 '02 [Home] 12           Cinderella ~ James Doyle his red shoes mambo ~ Brenda Morisse          Gopaul's Luck ~ Mervyn Taylor American Still Life ~ Patty Gordon          Oceans Apart ~ T.J. Desmond Scar ~ Martin Galvin Contributor Notes ~ . ~ . ~ Cinderella James Doyle When I first danced with her, I was suspicious. Her conversation was pleasant enough— compliments on the decorations, my dancing, the way I ran the kingdom— but there was a strange wavering underneath her words as if she had stolen them from a phrase book and they were new even to her. Finally, it was surprise itself that obsessed me. She was comely enough but it wasn't her looks. Beauty is neither a novelty nor a temptation when the women lined up at the palace gates year after year are goddesses. Nor could I tell anything about her form. It had all but vanished entirely beneath the ruffles an enthusiastic but undisciplined dressmaker had layered too thickly on her gown. Her tiara seemed temporary, as if it had been rented. And glass slippers, once the rage among the nobility, had recently become affordable to the masses. No, it was the way whatever she did seemed the first of its kind. I could sense no time— no childhood, no history— between the immediate and her birth. No moment that ever preceded this moment. That sharp edge to everything is the one experience denied a prince. I couldn't let it go. And I never have. All the years since then are the first sentence of a story rather than the last, a story I can always hardly wait to read. ~ . ~ his red shoes mambo Brenda Morisse Motorized seeds of light. The Stars are running off as barren constellations dip into a fanfare of dust and high hopes plotting the next heaven It must have been time travel, molecular candor the "oh god" of shadow devoured by the "what-to-do -next" pit brimming with scoundrels, nightfall tight, wall to wall night, Fresco of entangled smoke dancing Bebop curly, irresistibly bawdy The loose step the lust print, on whom will I walk? A leftover stroll or panic slurred across moody brown planks A neighborhood of footsteps A pick-up of strays beneath my feet he had the form but his wife wasn't perfect, with the wrong one, For that matter she didn't matter. So I gave him the finger. He bit that off too. I resolved to be less tasty It's an inside sting mother-daughter alphabet, miraculous amnesia, Sometimes it's Hollywood if god wants you to become a saint then you'd better have answers, "all right I'll stop screaming". floating spots in the margins The Unbearable ink I could have been a saint too, limping and smiling, smoking and scrubbing, I wonder if Jennifer Jones practiced that smile, god, she looked like a saint, her face falls away from my face and she dies with that Look that bliss Just as if she'd seen an immaculate conception. flower of flowers, I embrace the cleanest face I have ever chiseled, But I'm just contrary, never had the bedroom kind, mine are more kitchen or acetate eyes. flowers of bedlam flung towards morning, Hard weather fills the glass. not a day goes by that doesn't tighten around sighs Transparent exclamations in one hand a coma in the other my inexact temper and unfinished insides A Volatile bounce between real life and electricity, Hospital green, rolling underfoot, trips me up on own marbles The Sleeping park bench under birch trees, Foot of old leaves, Used up lifeline north of graffiti occasionally its wonder faster and faster around the world a million times until I drop dead from sightseeing a flick of spring Whatever roughs over skin could change your life too. but I'll have to stop counting listen to myself listening black bouquet of clouds Tactful patter and the gossip of wounds it doesn't really matter, moods adopt crowds and I slip into any crusade or posture Iridescent pigeons wander Promises break my hand The Compliant horizon bends into this yearend loop the lamp spell and hap- dark of this happy happy injured land ~ . ~ Gopaul's Luck Mervyn Taylor Tonight could change his luck For good. He could hear her calling From a phone out in the boondocks, A pound of change in her pocket. And his heart would escape The net, a dog determined to find Its owner, running pell mell Through traffic, hanging on to her Whistle. And before they hang up, Some things could be resolved, the seagulls screeching in the background Waking the evening sleeper, Bringing him from below the bridge To meet her face to face, Sand in the creases of his, Tears in hers, Laughter in the dunes, between them Enough flotsam and jetsam To build a house. ~ . ~ American Still Life Patty Gordon 1. Night's long stretch of negative space backs into its box of powder. click on the light—the clock's hands drop. Dawn. Everything and its opposite flips a switch. Winds of space make a racket. No one budges unless buffalo stampede. Snap back on the linear track. It's morning. Come to. 2. The dead tumble out of our hearts, almost healed, onto the mattress, unfolding like paper fans. They burn a hole in me. The room is an ambulance For triage And mouth to mouth. 3. All night my lover carries a stretcher back from Vietnam. 4. In the morning, he puts on his glasses. We are touched by the air between and the alarm that separates us. All I can tell you is Every time iodine stains the sky I turn my head as he heads down the narrow stairs where stars are blowing out awakening the sky's mix of grey grief and birds and their shadows flying past. ~ . ~ Oceans Apart T. J. Desmond Should I be rejected on the grounds of racial indifference, intolerance, or my pure bright whiteness, my blueness, my keenness, my greenness, my religion, my stout? I doubt that. I feel included, part of your world, dude. Catch me by the throat, feel my world slipping away. In Ladbroke Grove I grew six inches taller, for fear I would be, mugged by a mugger, buggered by a bugger, drugged by a brother. Harmony I say to you I would not reject you no matter your star sign, the warning sign or what. This is easy, the trees bow down, your face lights up, I'm as sunny as I can be. Spliff up nick a car, be solid never bow down, once in Hackney I downed a pint in six seconds, for fear I would be sober one second longer than I would have to be. This world this phantom world we are oceans apart. Should I be rejected on the grounds of my face tattoos, my swastika, my anger, my dress sense, my innocence, my angst? I doubt that. I accept you, brother. And in that one sentence left my world ajar. ~ . ~ Scar Martin Galvin Her mother taught her rudiments of dress, White gloves and pantaloons, white shoes For formal teas. In rain, her father made Her wear galoshes shaped like hippopotami Glistening with fat. Her sister told her what She had to hear: how to put off taking off The clothes she'd learn to wear so well That certain men would want them for their own Designs, or so they'd say. No one showed her How to wear the scar she found when she Was older. She satin-stitched it on from eye to chin. In her waiting room, she takes off what she can. The scar is thrown across a chair. Like the child She was, she lies in bed, talking to herself, With all she is before her and nothing left to learn. (Prior publ. Louisville Review) Contributor Notes