Issue
#8 

March
2010


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a poem by Jack Henry

snow begins to fall in Arizona

she stands
alone
at a corner,
hidden in graceful shadows
and neon tricks--
an ethereal afterlife glow
beams from Disneyland

she wears
Sunday morning leftovers
that tell no tales

she is
invisible

cell phone
rings
a standard tone--
a default tone--
she lifts
through Titan's chains,
listens
word droplets
spatter to concrete
an odd rain of dissonance

in a cool womb
bedroom closet,
she sits--
each cut
a reminder,
a future memory--
slow precise movement
almost
without pain

mother and father
sit
on a red couch--
comfortable, not new--

they watch television
reruns
of
Laverne and Shirley
and
Happy Days--
a dog naps
kicks its leg in a dream
the girl is pregnant--
she is
thirteen--
her parents do not know,
nor will they--
her fifth period
mathematics instructor
knows,

as he should

a woman,
forever shed
of playful things,
lays
in wait
atop a thin comforter--
Room 39
Motel Six

a lumpy man,
older than her father
would have been,
pisses blood into
an indifferent toilet
he stumbles,
nearly falls
his nostril
caked with snot
and cocaine
collapses, finally
inches before the bed

she stands
atop
a gravestone
and laughs
a black crow watches
snow begins to fall
in Arizona

© by Jack Henry

Gutter Eloquence Magazine ~ Issue #8 ~ March 2010    return to top