|Rosemarie lives in Wappingers Falls, New York. She works for a non-for-profit agency that serves individuals with disabilities.|
© 2004 Rosemarie Crisafi
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.
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
Physician Drowned In Brazil
In a brainstem,
Enraged, wearing a stethoscope
A stripped necktie
Pinned to a white cuffed shirt
A plastic pocket
A rapist stood up
On the braincase
A scoped rifle
AK47 cocky, elephant gun
Concealed in his pants
Inside the cerebellum,
They dynamited a gas chamber
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.
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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© 2004 SubtleTea Productions All Rights Reserved