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Poetry by Rosemarie Crisafi 

Rosemarie lives in Wappingers Falls, New York.  She works for a non-for-profit agency that serves individuals with disabilities.




© 2004  Rosemarie Crisafi




Bringing Home the Wounded

The afternoon of the rainstorm
alarms awake within parked
cars, rousing a feral feline
that roams junk yards
near the north train station.
He recalls an old dream,
firing hutches by the Mekong in driven rain,
convinced that it was his time,
as he saw a black kitten burning,
to die, on his own. Each time he hears
Sirens he expects choppers
will appear above the trees and he
will sleep while a Huey's propellers clamor
above an aluminum tomb.

Rumbling falls onto rails and the train
Screeches but he awakens
on dry white sheets, and voices befuddled
from the thunderstorm. Lifted from linen, taking
water to his mouth with a dreaming sip
he forgets the odor of fur.






When the monthly flow stopped, her breasts
enlarged. The new earth smelled strong:
chlorine, insect repellant, and onions. When her
bladder squeezed she rushed longing for October.

Hips broadened
as her belly swelled
and buffed.  Nipples ripened
to deep brown. A head turned.
Neurons massed, unified layer on layer.
Toes wiggled. Downy legs jerked, a liver
bubbled, and lungs effervesced. A uterus
grew within a uterus. As the tiny vulva
stretched a female unfolded. While
the doctor heard two thumps each
an instant apart skin thinned
growing more
porous. Then

it happened.





A Physician Drowned In Brazil
In a brainstem,
He awoke
Enraged, wearing a stethoscope

A stripped necktie
Pinned to a white cuffed shirt
A plastic pocket

Erect syringes
A rapist stood up
On the braincase

A scoped rifle
AK47 cocky, elephant gun
Concealed in his pants

In crematoria
Inside the cerebellum,
Sonderkommandos labored.

They dynamited a gas chamber
SS killed
Birkenau conspirators

There is a Dr. Mengele.
He wants twins.
He gave them chocolates.

Curtains drawn around Infirmary beds,
Dyed irises of children
Injected a brother's semen into his sister

Locked in a fie cabinet,
Inside manila folders, he hides
After they dug up the hipbone.





This Town

I try to live in the town left behind.
A fish tank bubbles, faucets trickle and gutters bend.

An ambulance sings with the dishwasher as rain
shoots sideways. Here the bricks vibrate

where my Sicilian father snapped pizzelles
like stars and lingered over tomatoes.

Burlap arms wrapped his rosebushes. In an arc
they grow. Clouds blush encircling organs rimmed by jade.
Corollas loosen as they age.

In the Sanctuary of San Remo as I looked up
you merged with marble in the  portico

stared at a pair of bell towers and a glass circle
bounded by stucco.

There you remain a statue.





All work is copyrighted property of Rosemarie Crisafi.



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