The Poetry Of.
Karen Corcoran..............................................
Dabkowski...................................................
Belly
How many of us
with open mouths,
sing for joy: cantillate
for daily bread
and are fed by fingers motherly
and soft? Not enough would be
my guess. We are the mess the world
has made of us, not chirping
quaveringly
in wonder, but under
sentence
of the
stone cold truth
there's
not much heaven left.
We feed too quickly
the needy
gullet-
not where
God is.
I Can
You know
how it's said some
people can pick up a car
throw it off a pinned child
well I can
throw my voice
cross the far side of Mars
when I want to
gather up the gall
and gird
myself and chuck a thunk
of Bee Bop
over the tree
tops
beyond
the peaks
of Machu Picchu, nod to the moon
and fly no bigger than a gnat; be home
for dinner
on
a slow day.
Minor Key In An Abandoned Copse Where There Is No Light
Weird, these wooden
plaster
and plastic
statues
representing a virgin birth
why they would have such power over me
still. I think it is
the wanting to believe
that
does it; wanting the little child
not to have to die someday
on a cross, or the loss
of any of us
killed
or maimed
because of him,
or sin- the apple
choking all.
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