out
of
it
p a g e s i x
copyright1999-2001, Christine Hamm
1,000 WORDS FOR SNOW*
Adolescent Aneroxics:
can be nothing but a cliche,
their necks and waists
pared down to a commonality.
They are becoming feral and angelic,
Fur springing from their forearms and upper lips,
Cheerleaders with yellow and navy polyster croptops
revealing an emptiness,
Their hair
falling
like blond rain,
more giving up the scalp for the pillow
each morning.
The scent of vomit, bleach and strawberry
lip gloss
coaleses in front of them like
Skywriting bargaining with God, the body.
Their eyes burning like stomach acid
Their mouths drooling uncontrollably at the refrigerator light.
They are reducing
To satin bows around necks, the texture
of new teddy bear fur, and
pink,
curling into an earlier and earlier knot,
Recapitulating into a
sparrow, a
fish, a
fishbone,
A wishbone of endless white ice,
or vast vanilla ice cream.
They are returning to something everyone remembers
But cannot say.
They are ivory novices in an abbey
with blood colored shadows,
prostrating themselves before
Before it happened
before the ever slower
beating organ, praying
for the final reversal of miracle.
And in their ears they always hear
the tinny ringing --
A scratchy voice from a swollen
Victrola, singing
of the snow-white
beauty of bones.
Hospital of the Doomed
Monday thru Friday,
I check my patients to see if they are dead,
or merely appearing to be so.
Helicopters circle voraciously.
I've heard a bullet passing nearby
can sound like a bumble bee,
simply fumbling on a down draft.
The man guarding the parking lot tells me,
"Look at all the crows! You could die."
The moon has come out too
soon, and she blushes blue with embarrassment.
Pigeons circle in a
black and orange moebius strip,
their wings catching the light just so.
I thank the parking lot man, and take
my keys out of my pocket.
The lizard painted on my thumbnail whispers something I can never catch.
As always, something blinks at me from the backseat.
I sigh and shift into reverse.
The Burning Glove
When I was 12
my brother and I used to write each other poetry
and masturbate.
It seemed appropriate at the time.
The toaster was an object of fascination for us.
Those red glowing bars crammed symmetrically in there, like
some organ
pumping in a bottom feeding
sea creature
with an eye as big as a dinner plate.
The dinner plates did not belong
in the microwave, I discovered.
Due to the painted gold rims.
Sparks and flames.
When I was fourteen
the cooking oil
caught fire
and mother
was dressing elsewhere.
I knew how to snuff it. I told him
not to raise the skillet
lid, (which of course he did)
as soon as I left the room.
Kitchen fires are to be expected.
It's not possible to not touch
your brother
when you live
under the same gingerbread roof
at the end of the same precipitous hallway
with the same burning
sensations.
*published in Diagram