Brulé, LaDonna

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John's Thin Arms Those StrawberriesJohn's thin armsfind hisdogencircle quickened warm smelly hairy animal to hug.Hours upon hours hismother says hehugs hisdog hecan't getenough shesays.Those strawberries Ican't even eat. that makes me sad for they are largedark bright red and on my plate, to taste the pleasure of these three would crowd the others in my gut.I would hurt physically.So I shall sip my coffeeprobably leavemy milk toosmoke a cigarette(I don't inhale)and stay awhilein this cornerfacing the cornerand let the other peoplelook if they want toat my back atmy hair down the goldsweaterat this woman alone writingin a 15ç Spiralin a cheap restaurant.—  LaDonna Brulé Lincoln, NBDr. FarsdaleAfter the divorce, when Dr. Farsdale moved into the colonial mansion on the corner, he went right on healing ills and wounds and kept the hedges and the lawns in order,repainted everything until it shone green shuttered and whitely antiseptic—  one day we saw him carry in his arms, out of the street, a bleeding epileptic—and he was always friendly and polite, Samaritan to any neighborhood, respectful and respected, but one night showed a different side of doing good."His house," I overheard my mother phone,"was all lit up like Christmas in mid-June— "I'd noticed her at windows, looking out."_that Filipino houseboy— " she went on—"a wild party— drunk, naked men—at least they could have pulled the drapes shut tight," behind the horror in her moral tone hennaed envy peeking through the blind.Athena May ApplewaiteArthritic in a wheelchair beside a vase of Ming, she spoke of Roman noses—  she loved the noble thing.A stone bust she had sculptured—  her father— stood behind, dreaming on a pedestal where she had placed the mind.”I had to give up carving—  my hands— and start on poems— " Beyond the window, orange trees shone brilliant with starred blooms."But found a form that was the same in words as well as stone—  there is a form to everything—  some day it will be known.The white cat leaped from her lap and pinkly flicked at fleas.She wheeled and plucked a book and held it on her kneesand read a poem about owls, I think it was—  her white hair like a helmet shining in the sun.She could have been Athene, ancient, and still wise—  but nothing in her poem touched us like her eyes.—  Harold Witt Orinda, CA69

John's Thin Arms

http://ddd.uab.cat/pub/wormwood/wormwood_a1971v11n2i42/wormwood_a1971v11n2i42p68.pdf

John's Thin Arms

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