ABOUT

CONTENTS

EDITORIAL

ARCHIVE

LAGNIAPPE

MAST

SUBMISSIONS

 
THREE POEMS
by Danielle Pafunda

Where We Went

We didn't go anywhere, we went wrong
in our own backyard. We didn't have a yard,
but we went wrong in the bedroom.
We went wrong on uncomfortable couches
that we got from friends, and also in public.

Sometimes it was restaurants. Running out, shouting,
a pack of busboys behind us. In the winter,
it was often on the sidewalk, where it was too cold
to be going wrong, but when we'd gone so wrong,
we didn't notice. In summer, we did it
when everyone else was off backpacking.
When the sky and atmosphere were two different things.

We went wrong alone, when there was no one else
to get wrong with. I didn't mind. I actually liked it.
Mattress pads and matted hair. I thought a lot about atoms,
half-lives, projectiles, small stones I couldn't get back.
The asthmatic coo of pigeons sounded less and less near,
but there were more gulls, wings tapping in the long strokes
of flight. I was listening out the window.

This way of going wrong took more effort.
We didn't sit up, we didn't say so.
We inhaled, exhaled, watched the ceiling,
fingered the shiny hem of the blanket,
took turns, took pains to turn over regularly.
Took the little alarm clock to heart.



The Girls in the Apartment Upstairs

Some days the girls don't know where to look
for the bitter angel. Maybe she's crawled back
under the gas stove to get high and take a nap,
or she's out on the roof, pretending to nest.
If she were in bed, they might not know it,
piled high with dirty skirts, panties, and t-shirts.
The bathroom contains evidence; small dark feathers
and the smell of her mouth. The living room
is hollow. They check the hallway and the stairwell.

They look down at me, bringing in groceries and mail.
They wish they had some groceries, some mail.
I think about taking them out to buy cereal,
peanut butter, toast. Well, not toast; bread.
I think about sending them each a letter.
I think about filling their apartment with helium balloons,
and stringing paper streamers from the light fixtures.
I imagine two little cakes.

When they see me put my bags down, they step back,
away from the railing, then the sound of their door.
Their feet go back and forth above me;
if they can't find her, they'll find her things.
They take a bottle of whiskey from behind the dish soap,
a cool bluish slip from the curtain rod, a new pair of pantyhose
from a bag on the table, lipsticked butts
from the jelly-jar ashtray, and the Las Vegas coffee mug.
They say, we're ready. They say, Mommy.

They know how to brew coffee, so that's what they do.
The milk is bad, but there's plenty of sugar. They set it out,
and sit quiet, like two little hunters, like two little saints,
like two little girls alone in the kitchen, staring at the stove,
staring at the fire escape, staring at the front door,
and at the coffee, willing it to stay warm.



A Death In The Family

That's recession for you. That's old-age for you.
That's debt, that's adultery. That's indigestion,
miscarriage, foreclosure, unemployment,
bigotry, hurricane, and betrayal. That's twenty-seven
years of marriage, for you. My mother's dog has died.

She sang to him, You Are My Sunshine, My Only Sunshine.
He brought her presents from the yard,
meaningful things, corpses with their wings on.
She let him choose the channel, and he
took her out on the town. It was not out of convenience.

Now, she cries in the grocery. Dog food
and cleaning supplies are in the same aisle.
Well, maybe the Bible does say something
about animal redemption. She's planning
a picnic. She's buying milk-bones wholesale
for the afterlife. She's buying a new leash.