Issue 16, March 1998
Shari Diane Willadson - Five Poems

let me tell ya,
no,just let me tell ya,
when the dawn is running down your cheek,
and he says,he says,he says that,
he has never seen,
anything as gross,
as that smashed spider in the bath tub,
so you take some toilet paper,
and clean it up,
it's that easy,
but the stains on the dress inside you,
the stains from last month in the woods,
and he says,he says,forget it,
and you remember.

until you cut that rope,
there is no saying,
how many buildings,
you could jump,
or marshmallows,
you could eat.

what i mean is,

who really cares,
about the dress out weight,
or fat ratio,
of japanese beef,
as compared to,say,
carolina chickens.

what i should have said was,

how do you propose,
to make a living,
with your husband gone,
two kids on drugs,
taxes due,
and a dirty oven?

no that's not right,

carol is still pregnant,
by her rapist,
and considering birthing,
half of the sextuplets,
and giving the other half,
to charity.

so,really,who's to say?

when the world ends,
the only things,
sally takes comfort in,
are daddy's rolex,
summer camp,
and her whitening toothpaste.

while it is clear,
that she has no brain,
we must be mindful,
that hearing is intact,
and may be used,
in future lawsuits,
remember that little people,
can make much,
from the soup of drugs,
listed on her chart,
and while juries find,
the mental picture,
of a woman bound,
sexually exciting,
they quickly turn,
the shame to justice,
by way of guilty verdicts,
so clean her sores,
but always remember,
she bites.

she took great care,
when making atoms,
the rings were tricky,
a little finger,
held the wrong way,
gave antelopes horns,
on their toes.

she wrote down,
universal recipes,
on toilet paper,
laid them in my hands,
to give to the president,
"he sure needs them",
shaking her head.

when the fits come,
i stretch my body,
to match her hands,
the president watches,
from his rocking chair,
tattered blue robe,
around his knees.

jesus christ helps,
until her eyes calm,
and she knows me,
i get her the spoon,
to begin again,
the world depends,
on the atom maker.

left to the rest,
the framed funnel,
molding stars,
from human clay,
the same to be,
in measured cup,
dispensed.

age of tarnish,
discolored blue,
not recognized,
by the forward mind,
moved through lines,
with lead smiles,
paper eyes.

prisms hid,
behind grey glasses,
worn by inmates,
forced to serve,
a cradle world,
maturity engulfed,
by pink birth.

celebrate the child,
infant glory,
obscure the years,
with curtains of gold,
the unlined face,
with money obtained,
flesh served.

a backward view,
caught in the eddy,
of social error,
misplaced value,
on beginnings,
life the given,
not dependent on grace.

a working model,
for one story buildings,
the heavens left,
to the birds,
while ants follow paths,
to crucified dreams,
buried under broken sidewalks.