Karen Corcoran Dabkowski
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strange little happy why do i sometimes feel a little giddy, no foreseeable lightning in my skies no reason why this bliss this silly, light as air, as deborah kerr as cooly 'right' as 'this is the night' when nothing's on the slate. i've come to table late and can't demand a drumstick, but i've brought an appetite, and a small aperitif: this leaf, now drink it in. It is this Spring, 2003 in flattened, ovoid, 'tipped-to- point-at-end' and phosphorescing pho-to syn-thesizing, god damned fine perfection; if i were a man i've have an erection for this leaf- that's it i'm finally seeing with my third eye wide. Come kiss me. Down Long Lane In Gettysburg National Cemetery hushed with semi-circled heroes flanked by poetry, there's dignity- solemnity and reverence; nary a weed pokes through -look closer. What you will not see is one black soldier's name- while down Long Lane, the buried bones of brave black Union soldiers lay interred in plots reserved for only 'Colored' turn to dust, anonymously abide behind an invisible curtain their dying meant to rend. But boxed apart from bones of men they fought beside, who thought they'd freed the slaves did naught but open irons: minds and hearts stayed closed. No children come in Decoration Day parades and strew these graves with flowers. Some chains we see, some chains are partly pigment, partly fear of the unknown, tongueless; seen in their omissions. Only the final earth receives their worth as equal, brought together in worms by a sacred fist that smashes us all above and below the sod, the same persistent grip of God, the same ironic, laughing bosom booming love, no markers needed. Known we are, each hair and where it lay a while, which hair was straight and which was curled, why we fought, and why He's never stopped loving the world and all the absurd and feckless, foolish, sheepish creatures in it. Down Long Lane you'll find a place He sits and strokes the air, as mothers gentle their babes for sleep: a quiet place, respectful, flanked by poetry that hasn't any words. Pattie Cake Seven weeks is far too early for a smile -a real one- not of gas or angels tickling fat wee piggy toes, but Bill insisted turning up the ends of mouth and showing shiny gums to Gram. Full cheeks above the chins, eyes lit with light inside, I swear were lanterns of the lost who found their wretched way home by following their longing to a twelve pound little feller, who shook with joy each time the Baker Man marked it with a 'B'. Main Page
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