POETRY

POETRY

BY KATHRYN G. MCCARTY

C o n s t a n t

I. First thought of you, October:

Welcome water dripping

down my

nose

as priceless gift rather than annoyance

With chocolate and coffee

combined in one

with drips from a gully shower

which send me laughing and blinking

Seeing through the rain

each drop on my eyelash crystal clear

It was at that moment I knew.

I thought love would be simple

With childish beliefs I never expected jealousy

The weighing of words, measurement of thought, action

no one must ever hurt

There are no excuses

I am afraid I have known you before

In lifetimes spent as recklessly as penny wishes in a fountain

There must have been pain

The feminine knows only this way

of passive daydreams

fulfilled by momentary weakness.

When one reaches this point of yearning

Physical action is simplest;

Nothing unreasonable, silent confusion.

III.

Some days I wonder if I will ever be ready:

To have completed youth before turning gray

(yet to grow complete

from incomplete

may be impossible)

Chalk it up to cheap booze

and insecurity

forgive my brutal honesty

Vulnerability is not one of my stronger suits

The mind is conquest; the body,

soul, all left to imagination:

Love is the only constant.

T O W A R D S T H E S U N I N T H E T O W E R O F B A B E L

Smoke never leaves, always remains

hanging onto the form of its birth

Be it wood or ashes, lingers in the air.

I think of things I cannot say

to the man who says "I love you"

when I leave, who hears response without words

The significance of loving,

creating vulnerability in touch, talk

The significance of naiveté

When love is never wrong

Before fear, joy blends passionately together.

The blue eyed black man in the corner

quizzes with his upward glance

into my face

he is what he is

perhaps it is so simple,

only requires that you listen in childlike wonder.

To listen is to walk in your mind,

frighten myself with your loneliness

For it is my own.

My grandmother collected butterflies

So that I might someday swallow them whole

Red net held high in hand

My grandmother was a frigid woman who swallowed

butterflies like semen

And yet it always felt the same

One eye blinded, both eyes closed

Self mutilation of the fullest degree, choice.

It is my decision -

I have the capacity to know all

yet I accept very little

Only assuming I am a part of your life.

My father tells me to separate fact from fiction

(but that most of it is bullshit)

All truths my own

I am not weak, only afraid

The two are not the same.

Surprised by what you've made me feel,

I think of things I cannot say

to the man who says 'I love you," when I leave.

H A N N S J O R G : W A T E R M A N B A T H E D I N F A N C Y

Met a stranger in a French cafe

tequila drunken

Marlboro-smoke-high

He took me by the hand through silent cathedral stoned streets

He said: We have no regrets, there are only choices

No mistakes.

We satisfy our appetite, accepting anything less

is a choice not worth the taking

After my first visit to his bedside he warned:

Do not fall in love with me

make sure I am someone whose touch you can forget

The eyes, smile will fade, only the word remains

Any more would sadden me

After these many months I see you again

refreshed in the memory of my own comfort

The writer and musician sit together now

Cold coffee, hash pipe philosophies

Consumption of our souls in laugher

If my life could stay this simple

I would gather your songs like stones in my hand

Scatter them upon the water

Watch the waves ripple towards me.

Then, bathed in whispered music

I would understand the passion of simplicity.

Listen.

Expect nothing,

Acceptance is all we require

Met a stranger in a French cafe

T h e P a i n t e r

I see the sound

Humhumhum murmur of music

Interlude of color

Abstraction of vibrant noise

The color of laughter is red

Subtle shade of gray as

differentiating life from

eternal sleep

One brush stroke as brutal

as hands brushing wind before

the touch of flesh

Rings with burning sensation

The absence of color

Light

Unfiltered, highlighted by the darkness of voices no one else

will ever hear

Likened only to whispers

of muses

I relax to their tune

Close my eyes.

L E T T E R S T O D A N N Y

Danny O'Connor, murdered in Chicago, 1989

Dear friend,

I talked to you last night

met you in dreams of misunderstandings

Feeling lonely, I had gone inside to find you waiting

Question God, Why take him?

Question myself, Why stay?

Speak to you in shadows of falls golden leaves

I miss you Danny.

Try holding you inside me, squeeze lids tight

If I could only shut you into my world

I would protect you there, blanket you in my arms

Feed you poetry of my passion's lyrical laugher

Open my throat wide and hum the tune of your touch

I see your last moments

Stand helpless in youth's imagination

your hands are bruised from fighting

I have sent you sensual images of what

the living is like without you

I have touched worlds for you, jealous that you have gone before

leaving me searching my answers alone

They slashed his eye

They cut the very soul of my memory

He said: I hope they find me in the morning

before the blood is cold

I hope they find me in the morning

You signed all your letters

"Love Me."

Dearest Danny,

I did.

P L A Y I N G H O U S E

Painted and dressed in mock furniture

Eclectic style pieced year by year

into an image neither recognized

Fragranced with cleansers

and stored within pages of a well worn book

Moved swiftly through years

Boy and Girl growing separate

yet bound by all that surrounded them.

Learned to mimic time and place

Illusions created in hearts broken and scarred

by that which was never meant to hurt

Filled stomaches off tables ringed with water

Cultivated weeds

as nothing else would grab hold and flower the soil,

laid on their backs

feeding music to a ceiling

which looked down and smiled

Hung mirror images for accent

filled with dialects of incomprehensible reflections

Promises broken without cause or probability

Without knowledge

Filmed and captured

as a voice suspended in time above all other

possibilities

Got drunk on regret

Stroked by sorrow and bedded down with disillusionment

Awoke to silences which deafened

where perfection once stood

O N M I K E ' S E L O P E M E N T

Our only physical denominator:

the Sun shining on us

In such distant lands, yet warmed by the same hands

I envision the moment

Experience that which I am only psychically a part of

I tap into the sun which warms my skin

and I pray it falls on you

People who love you have been thinking about you all day

All mentally connected to the power

Open my mind to your thoughts

The idea of my being there only in spirit crosses your mind

You laugh.

The wedding started late

Flowers, a bouquet, flowers in her hair

The images come harshly, focused

Mimosas for breakfast

Your hair glistening

Palms sweating

You think of the responsibilities

The sons to come that will carry on the family name

You think of mom, of me

Of how, with this step you become more like Dad

You think of your own mortality, of hers

You think of God

You think of God as you did as a child

Focus on the words you speak

Listening to an idea word by word

For the first time understand that to see truth is to honor it

You realize something of what Forever is,

although the concept is intangible

You realize you are happy,

that very few moments in your life

will ever fill you as this one does.

TWO VOICES FOR THOMAS

SHE

I watch him sleeping

stink socks paper strewn beer cans

He farts

SHE AND ME

I watch him sleeping

Moon lights clouds

from behind like the sun

Full moon bright

I can see his face in shadows

on the wall

watch him breathing

SHE

I stand over and watch him sleep

Pray over him no harm

I saw him standing over me

On his right should three birds

large black beaked birds

He took off his shirt

Gave it to me

Left quietly through the window

as he had entered

SHE

At two, three maybe

I remember the first time it happened

he came to me

I smelled her in his hands

Cunt juices fragrance sweet

ME AND SHE

I love him

SHE

He told me of her once

Once I forgave.

What makes me take him again

From lust

to fear

to laziness

I continue on.

I iron

I wash

clean pristine fresh sheets

I cook

and early morning coffee

I clean

crisp white collars

I iron

smell bacon

I wash

I cook

I clean

I iron

I wash

I cook

I clean

I roll over

Sleep

SHE

Fear, lust

laziness

Morning.

Night

I wait for nights

My day is full of waiting

He only wants me because he can’t have me

And that makes me want him more.

SHE

Fresh Onions

I’ve been cutting

all day

Onions

They say the onions,

the odor makes you cry.

Try holding my breath against her.

I thought the answers were clear enough

Till death do

we two part

We two part

SHE

A cathedral of Linen

Communion wafers

on outstretched tongue

For better or for

worse

The worst part is very quietly loving you

Holding on to you, my friend

Don’t think I’m too serious about this though,

I’ve been seeing other men

At the back of my mind you stand

Lingering with your bad jokes

We are a cliché

SHE

He is everything to me

He is nothing to me

I painted my nails

the brightest crimson I could fine

Caressed his back with

the softness of knives

left my mark

he refuses to speak

Dick hard forehead lined in concentration

I told her

he says

I told her once

What will I tell her this time

I got a blow job from a terrific friend?

ME AND SHE

He leaves

SHE

And everything I have ever believed in

ever wanted walks

Silently in his shadow

I though he was my friend

I though I could trust him

lust, fear,

I gave him everything

laziness

The first time

I told him I loved him

That was a mistake

Afterwards

I gave him nothing

and wanted everything

SHE

I gave him everything

ME AND SHE

Square jaw broad back hips tight to mine

SHE

For the moment

he makes me

comfortable with his smile

and warm

with laughter

Wet with his touch

he was my first

There are two rug burns on my arm

The day goes by

I touch

Smile

In pain I think of you

Do you have anything to remember me by?

SHE

He was my first.

my first.

In twenty, thirty years

the house of my body

the rose nippled breast

will sag and dip

Bowels will falter

Teeth removed eyes bifocaled

Forehead lined Hair silvered Womb parched

And through this time

We will grow together

I will have no other

This is the last

This is the last time

I taste him

He had no risks

Knew he would always return

All risks are my own

He falters. Sleeps.

SHE AND ME

I stand over

and watch him sleep

Pray over him no harm

BREAD BAKING TIME

VOICE ONE

Monday, 12:32 a.m., so that’s Tuesday really.

Was at Gaye’s house when I got a call that Mike was on his way and minutes later he screeched around the corner in the truck and we’re here in less than an hour driving 85 or 90 all the way. Mom’s heart stopped around 8, and they did CPR. She is responding to kisses and words with hand squeezes.

She’s on 100% oxygen. Her pH level will kill her if her heart or lungs don’t stop first. Her heart is beating at 142 beats a minute.

I hugged her and when I looked up there was blood in her mouth.

Last night I washed dishes, exactly how she told me, with her voice in the background. “This is my house and you’ll do it how I want it done.” I also started picking up all her medicine and putting it away. I looked through the old photo albums and then I looked at her closet and couldn’t think of what to do with her clothes. Then I put lots of dishes away, and I could barely walk I cried so hard. I think about how I will feel five years from now and if I will still cry this much.

VOICE TWO

My mother used to stand in the kitchen

on early winter mornings and bake bread.

He brow knit hard in concentration,

she’d light the gas pilot.

On the coldest days, she’d throw open

the door and lean in: waiting.

I though perhaps she’d stay forever,

but she’d always pull out just in time.

With a smile. Like death visited and revisited. I will always remember the smell of rising yeast

and warm buttered bread

that roused me out from wool blankets,

feet to cold wooden floor, mouth watering

stomach always yearning

VOICE ONE

There is an odor to mom, a smell I’ve never smelt before and it makes me sick.

VOICE TWO

I can smell it in the air now,

fragrance as sweet as mourning rain

On days when you can see your breath

in vapors that fog the windows

I press my face against it, looking at the distorted picture.

Always seeing you.

Same smile

Same eyes

Same stare

VOICE ONE

Its 5:45 a.m. I have been in the ICU room since 4. A while ago I looked down and mom had this thick blood running out of her mouth. That’s twice. Her G tube (stomach) is full of bloody coffee ground shit. her kidneys have stopped so she’s swelling because of the water backup and this one lady nurse couldn’t draw any blood, only fluid.

Shit.

It won’t be long now.

VOICE TWO

It is bread baking time

reaching for your recipe

I have always done it your way,

becoming more like you

with each cup of flour

with the kneading of the bread

Needing you.

VOICE ONE

11:35. Asked mom if she hurt and she nodded yes. So got her a shot. Dad came in. “The three smartest things I ever did in my life were you her and you and Mike. I always said I didn’t want kids, but secretly I did. Then you came along and you had two arms and two legs to you, and you were healthy and normal. And I was happy. I always wanted a boy though. I was glad to have you, but I wanted a boy. That was Mike.”

“I’m going to the lounge,” my father said. “I have a headache.”

2:16 Her lips are blue-ish and so is her skin tone. If I touch her with my nail, the imprint stays. her kidneys stopped so it’s fluid build-up. The cancer is throughout her body. The whites of her eyes are greenish yellow and her tongue is swollen. Mike and Dad are sleeping.

Yesterday or night before I could have sworn I heard mom whistle for me. It was louder than she could talk after she lost her voice. When I slept in her hospital bed out in the living room, a million times I thought I heard her call me. or I saw her standing there watching me. Her face gets bluer. I wanna go hold her hand. She will never see my kids.

VOICE TWO

I kneel beside the oven

Lay my head inside,

wait for the warmth of sleep. Wait.

Pull out just in time.

Like death visited and revisited.

VOICE ONE

Its 7 and my mother is dead and I have never felt like this before. I was at the room sleeping and Mike came and we came here and she was almost gone and cold and unconscious and blowing air bubbles like kids do to be annoying. And we watched the numbers on the machine click to zero. And I cried in the bathroom in the floor with all the lights out and then I threw up and now they are taking all the tubes out so we can go in and visit with her and something smells really bad and my father is praying and he’s never prayed before like that and they’re calling people and I’m in the lounge staring at things

VOICE TWO

This is how it is done.

Generation to generation.

Mother to daughter.

And on the bitterest mornings, I rise just before sunrise,

ready to fill this empty belly

Always yearning for more.