snap
out
of
it


p a g e f o u r




Poetry
copyright1999-2001, Christine Hamm


Highway 1

Here it begins and ends.

It is dangerous to be
on the road this summer.
As always,
there is the cliff. And
on the flowering slopes of ice plants hide
gunmen with random thoughts
and the flitting hearts of red-
tailed hawks.

Crickets and firecrackers.

Gunshots like wood slapping wood
like we used to do
when I was seven and you were
six
and the horses were coming,
we could hear them coming,
on the drum of our blocks
and the sting of our palms.

Just a little hole in the door
of the Mercedes.
I can fit my littlest finger into it,
the metal split like an orange peel.

The gunman wore black,
and so do I.

The sky was as black
as when we were under the covers at night

We were princesses with shorn heads
adrift on a popsicle stick raft.

There was no light.
But I could see
your ear closest to me
with whorls like the opening
heart of a pine cone.

I have always felt the light from your face.

Your cheeks flower now
like ice
and the hair across your forehead
is neater than it should be.

Your breath fills the room
like a funeral parlor
sigh and
I remember the smell
of our dirty naked toes,
touching.




Good Dog


I. The dog comes home.

The dog comes home from 300 miles away.
We thought we had given him away to our old neighbors.
My mother has painted on her eyebrows and lashes, my father has slicked his hair to the side and changed ties, and I'm wearing white nylons. We're on the road to the restaurant.
He shows up, gleaming on the yellow line, just as the moon rises. I hope that I'm the only one to see him.
He howls. The car slows.
My parents lean forward and stare through their prescriptions.
My mother says, Oh, Micheal, what's that, and my father presses his hair deliberately on his head with one hand.

His pink eyes float and wink at me.
The car stops.
The dog disappears in front of us, and the car rocks.
If it's not one thing, my mother says.
We finally get to go somewhere as a family, my father says. Not since she was sixteen, my mother says. They turn and stare at me.
The dog circles the car, pausing occassionally to form his lips into an "o" and roll out a ghastly sound.
My father peers over the top of his glasses. He's limping, he says.
The poor puppy, my mother says like Minnie Mouse. The dog rubs his face on my window and leaves lines of foam. My father turns the car around, and my mother says, then we'll have to get more Kal-Kan.

The dog sits in the back seat.


II. The Dog Eats

The dog eats everything in the house.
My mother and I go to Macy's. When we come home, the dog has eaten two unwrapped loaves of bread, and a chair cushion.
No!, my mother says to the dog. No! The dog runs and sits on my lap, elbowing me in the stomach.
This has got to stop, my mother says to me, picking up pieces of cushion. Bad puppy!, she says to the dog. The dog sticks his head and paws under my leg.

My mother glues the cupboard doors shut.


III. Beating the Dog

I admit, I beat the dog, too.

Bad dog, I tell him. He has peed on my bed. I hit his head and rump. He rolls over and wiggles. I kick his chest, and he takes the tip of my shoe in his grin. Nnn, he says. Nnnn. He snaps his head from left to right. I fall down, and place my hand in his jaws.

He rolls his eyes and holds me.


IV. Walking the Dog

My father and I walk the dog.

I pull the dog next to my leg as we walk down the driveway.
Heel, I say. He looks up at me. Good dog, I say.
Come on, let's go, my father says. He claps his hands, and unzips his blue down jacket.
Sit, I say. The dog trots after my father. I yank him back and press on his rump with the heel of my hand. Sit, I say. I walk forward. Heel, I say. The dog heels.

Com'ere puppy, my father says. He claps his hands and jumps sideways. Come on, puppy! he says.
The dog hunkers down and barks. He doesn't mean it, I want to tell the dog, sure he want to play a little now, but he'll never really let you go. The dog runs in a circle. Heel! I say. I want to tell him about the dangers of running free, of a messy room, and too much joy.

Come here, puppy, my father says. Oooh, puppy. The dog tosses the leash in his mouth and dances.
My father runs ahead. Sit! I yell at the dog.

The dog runs.
I burst into tears.


V. Killing the Dog

Don't kill the dog, I say to the phone.

This is very hard for me, my mother says.
Give the dog away, I tell her.
This is very hard for me, my mother says. He bit a little boy on the leg.
He wasn't little, I say. He provoked him.
All he did was walk by, my mother says.
I'm sure he gave the dog one of those looks, you know, I say. One of those looks that could mean anything but you know they really mean...
The dog has to go, my mother says. We have rules in this house. No biting dogs.
Put a muzzle on him, I say.

My mother starts to cry.



Dr. Alzheimer's Nightmare

Someone is in your house!
Someone follows you around, pocketing what
you put down:
your eyeglasses, your
housekeys, your falseteeth.

They are someone you
know but keeps
hiding: your neice, your daughter,
your granddaughter.

Soon they move the
bathroom to another part
of the house, fill the
old space with a closet
full of someone else's
coats, or a bedroom
you barely recognize.

The toilet is so far away.
How you suffer!
They move the bathroom
as you try to sleep.
You can hear the bumping
and the voices, but
can't make out the
words.

They are trying to
humiliate you, steal your
dignity as well as your
bracelets.

Next thing, you open
what used to be the
bathroom door, and there
sits your mother, although
you seem to remember
a funeral, and crying so
hard your face swelled
up like a baby's.

Your mother looks like she
always did, but you do not.

Your bathrobe is all you
have left, and you refuse
to take it off. When you
sleep, they sprinkle it
with a peculiar smell and
smear brown around
the edges.
Still, the belt feels like a firm
comforting arm around
your waist, steering you.

One night you trick them.
You close your eyes
when the door opens a
crack, then shuts. You
can see the shadows
of their feet under
your door, then, all is
shadows.

Your eyes have a light
of their own.
You spring up, step around
the cracks in the floorboards,
and skitter down the hall.
You know you can find
the bathroom, but all
the doors look the same.
And there are so many!

You feel a breath
behind you.
This is it! She's the one.
Her neck writhes like
the python you held once
at a circus.

She scratches at your
hands, but you hold firm.

"Grandma! Grandma!"


In a dream of
falling, your head hits
before you wake.
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