.................................
Essence
.................................

with his smell all over my body, my face, glued in my hair,
my eyebrows, staining my fingers,
I search with my mothers and sisters, on hands and knees, for
my missing sandal.
he lies on top, swollen and satiated. victorious. more a man
for absorbing unto his own a woman's spirit.
soon, I will be presented, sticky with sex, wide-mouthed
and full-bodied, all my boy-like gawkiness gone, a woman,
fully, at last (note the bare sole).
Father will give me away, though this is only ceremonial. to be
true, I have already given myself away. I am taking part in
this ceremony to tell Father that I have given myself away,
and I am no longer his.
Mother cries mothers cry.
I was never hers.
now, I, with the mussed hair of the reborn (see the way the
child's eyes reflect his) gladly wear the ring, the yoke,
the collar, the chain, the brand that (listen and finally
understand, new woman) make this man (who has swallowed me)
mine.
I am only following the part of me I have given away.
otherwise, I will look forever for my missing part, treading
water, sewing small circles, pacing holes in the floor.
instead, I walk brazenly through the center of town with
naked belly, soft, vacant smile, and one bare foot.
after the ceremony, as he lays over me again and I open
my mouth to taste him and the part of me I gave him,
rubbing the memory of me around in my mouth,
my Mother will return to that place where she hid my sandal.
she will take it to the secret room where the dead
change clothes and drop my sandal in with the others.
Mother sighs mothers sigh.
it must be. when she saw he had taken me (which is the way she
saw it), she took my shoe. she remembers the first steps I
took, into Father's waiting arms.
even then, the steps were not mine.
She locks the chest for the next daughter who easily
leaves her Mother, and pries herself from her Father, to taste
a man who coats her body with the water of her newly-missed,
though not newly-missing, self

 
.................................
Lousas
.................................

She goes running over the lilac grass
a stomach is worry rising
        pounding down
as she skips the ant hill
        worry rising
        pounding down
as she dodges the opium flowers.

Inside, a realized man,
in the white walls
under the carefully-reconstructed wood
beams in the lonely shadow
of cold coals from the winter fire.

I will harvest these almonds,
sticky brown,
marring the cutting blue sky.

 
.................................
Common Beauty
.................................

Pretty bird, wounded and chained, down the block,
the way we walked, white lines reflecting the moon
in the after-rain. And this is prose, and that was
simply conversation. I am comparing you to my favorite fruit.
You are lacking. You are convenient here in the muffled
near-silence that passes as our night. Thus you are not
special. You know that word. I am surprised by Turnaround
Time, familiar gestures: mine, for the mail, for light,
for shooting rays up from the earth; yours, in common
beauty. I desire no master. I desire no better. I desire
that with tiny bells, bright reds, another catastrophe.
Over and under, I focus on a squat, dented man
coming up to me on my perch.

 
.................................
No Hosanna Marching Song
.................................

 
1.

Don't wanna weep no hosanna
don't wanna weep no hosanna
don't wanna weep no hosanna
1      2      3      4

 
2.

Behold the image of a fire
unlit and smouldering
shouldering the great part of your being,
minute.

Weedling in a pasture,
a small worm will find a home in you,
in your no-tell body,
admired, in silence, by many.
Couldn't wait for it to pass.

Trembling near a cliff,
a rebel sighs over his bootshine
deerknife splintered feet
and wonders.
Couldn't wait for it to end.

Now you're leaping into the minds of others.
A passed-by, but never-forgotten
flute sound
settles on your eardrum
drumming distant hosannas,
distant beatitude.

I wouldn't wonder if I were you.
Only habit can kill it,
and habit kills. Words
tumbling down and over and over.
And it couldn't be over
  too soon.

 
.................................
Katarina
.................................

from parallel atrophy to a tremendous sprouting
barrelling spasm. catatonic Katarina
lolls and begs. knees pressing, lifeless slump,
in blue.

        I prepare peaches and grapes for you. to
show I grieve your grief, am willing
to do it for you, having seen Katarina.
slumping.

        Katarina finds the strength
to roll, one motion, to bed. I
cried facing Katarina, eyes blinkless
in the dark.

        you and I are beyond lovers,
this has been observed. this
must be true as I find myself
incapable of lying to you. this
worries you.

        I say I know your grief. it is
either all pickled and hard inside or
gaping and sucking, raw
pulsating with sensation,
open to pain.

        I blow down
the mountain, swallow you
and deliver you to Katarina.

.................................
Dana Standridge
.................................

 
Copyright © Dana Standridge
September 1996

...the work poems in this room by Kathleen Nering...
the coffee you poured on my words
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