.................................
Sweet Thoughts of Venom
.................................

Oh, the motionless sway
of the black ogre secreted in my throat
demanding voice.
No half-man half-beast cascading from a dark alley
matches the decay within.

As for my evil,
it was handed down from solemn grandma
and her bubby before her.
As for the devil
it came from my own dear ma-ma.
As for the man
calmly eating his dinner
watching his TV
reading the Metro section,
he is cloaked in dread
and I, the child, puddle on alone
taking notes
making memories
aching for revenge time.

The fear of night deceit,
that odious, loathsome creature
sneaking into bedrooms,
soft touches,
soft like a felon's caress,
strangle, poison, trespass
such a sweet young thing.
Terror stalks my home
but the doors are shut and bolted
from the inside
and it can't get out.
Fear finds a nest in my heart.
Panic feeds my vicious hunger.
I grow strong with bile.

I grow up, marry a man
who sits at the dinner table
reads his paper
drinks his coffee,
and holds my hand like they do in movies.
We have a son
with his father's red hair
and my curls.
I enter the baby's room at night and,
half-beast, half-mother-angel,
I pass on the family tradition.

 
.................................
This woman waits
.................................

Forget the small talk.
The sun is setting.
Indulge me,
tenderly.
Pretend I am fragile,
nearby.
The rising moon you see
is my own.
You've been away too long.
This woman waits,
walls down
fears stashed
with good intentions.
Fall is coming
and a fire would be nice.

 
.................................
Hands
.................................

Soft flesh
rough skin
I use my finger
the index
trace a thin line
such foreign territory
over knuckle bone
thumb nail
wrist
trace the life line
the love
over and over
listening for whispers
holding nothing back.

 
.................................
Incomprehensible Act #2 Performed By Men
(#1 is War)
.................................

First they line up,
hunched over
facing each other
elbows on the ground
butts in the air
cranium protectors in place
to minimize damage.

A whistle blows and
the ball handler
runs on tiptoes,
does a quick shuffle
and throws his ball.

Clusters of gladiators rush
towards each other
driving their chests into each other,
collapsing on impact.
Any players still erect
rush toward their prey:
the man who caught the ball,
a man preoccupied by
running in circles.

When snared, the ball catcher
is hurdled to the ground
hopefully landing on his ball.
The others leap on top,
forming a pile of appendages
breathing hard in a moment of rest.

As the limbs extricate
the men stand, shake, and line up again
shifting from foot to foot
waiting
for something.
Sometimes they all run away
and a second cluster of warriors
takes their place.

Sometimes a clock ticks
as the men run at each other.
Other times the clock doesn't move
although the men do.
Sometimes the men don't move
and the clock doesn't either.
Sometimes the one with the ball kicks it high
and the witnesses scream
anything they want.

.................................
Carla Perry
.................................

 
Copyright © Carla Perry
July 1996

... long poems in this room by Christina Rossetti and Connie Walle...
surf and rescue
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