WORDWRIGHTS #20 • Nov.-Dec. 2000 • Selections
BACK
EMILY'S RULES
I can not view a Man as Moth
For whom to Cast a Net,
Lure Fast Away from other Nets—
Is This a Game for Friends?
As if the one whose love I’d Seek
Has neither Heart nor Mind—
His Voluntary Choice I want
Not Blindness to a Trap.
For When it’s Two—it’s Back-and-Forth
Not Up-and-Down that’s Sweet,
And Love’s no Mark to be Shot Down—
Kind Eyes—Cupid’s Sole Darts.
Nor will I Feign I’m what I’m Not
For when he’s Close he’ll See—
And should one worthy to Admire
Be Fool for Flip, then Flop?
For Love’s Niagara to me—
I crave that Whirlwind Back,
And as Tornado has an Eye—
Choose Who Selecting Whom.
I Won’t Betray Myself—or Him
If that’s the Cost to Win—
Though Losing has a Salty Taste—
Deceit’s Gall Through and Through.
RHONDA WILLIFORD
FRENCH TWIST
During the week the courtyard across the street was used as a children’s playpen between the hours of 11 AM and 2 PM, and on those very hot and sunny Paris days in early June the noise was almost as unbearable as the heat of the old city, whose every surface seemed tinged with lampblack accumulated over hundreds of years. Even the hot pavement of my street had stretch marks and had, in some places, crumbled away to reveal stained and decaying bricks. At least the kids had chestnut trees to protect them from the soot and the sun, the clustered leaves formed thousands of natural parasols protecting their porcelain, Marlene Dietrich skin.
It wasn’t that I minded much, not having that same protection. I was, after all, at treetop level on the top floor of a five-story walk-up near St Denis, (the best and worst part of the place was the circular staircase with its delicate wooden-capped banister that defined a cylinder of air from the skylight all the way down to the hard, black and white tiled entrance hall where a bank of brassy mailboxes greeted those descending) le quatrieme etage to be exact; a little French quirk to disguise the fact that you were farther from ground level than it sounded, possibly making it easier to rent the tiny studio apartment to unsuspecting foreigners, Americans like me, struggling to reconnect with their college French and escape, trade really, one slick advertising-driven culture for another. At least this one was in another language, and the novelty of it made it infinitely more appealing.
All said, I should have probably stayed in Boston, bought a little red Miata, and hopped into the singles bar scene instead of taking a six-month leave of absence. My girlfriend, Kim, (ex-girlfriend now,) accused me of having early mid-life problems. At 29, I knew I was too young for mid-life problems, even though my Dad died at age 57 a few years back in a car accident, so nothing medical there. Kim and I had a convenient life together for three, almost four years; a great apartment overlooking the Charles River at the top of one of those old four-story, dried-blood brick affairs. We had enough space, at least at first. Our parents wanted us to marry. Kim wanted children. Recently, that had been all she wanted to talk about. One Sunday her fat tabby, Greco, turned over the kitchen trash while she was out running. As I was cleaning up after the furball, I found a month’s worth of birth-control pills under gnawed and mostly licked-clean Chinese take-out containers. That afternoon I avoided her, watched her from across the room. That night I pulled out the Trojans and she got upset, but more so that I had caught on.
Not long afterwards, I really did catch on. It would have been okay in the long run had I stuck it out, but I figured that, to be certain, I’d have to demand a DNA test if she got pregnant, and I just couldn’t handle that kind of garbage. There are some things for which you should not be in competition. That’s just the way I was raised. She wanted the apartment too, so I moved back to West Concord with my mom for a few months and socked away the bucks until I couldn’t stand it anymore.
Story concluded in WordWrights #20
ROBERT ANGELL
SOPHIA LOREN
A raptor’s visage,
Assyrian bas relief;
yet in the eyes, the poise,
a stately acquiescence,
opulence carved
to grace the prow
of a splendrous galleon,
too primal, too regal
for Cleopatra’s gaudy barge—
or love-sick Antony, too—
for she is not a lover’s lover;
no, she is instead
the apotheosis of love,
as superior to sirens
as cathedral organ to lyres.
GRAAL BRAUN
