tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8880662802696870392024-03-12T18:48:52.582-07:00Poems of Cheryl Gatlingcherylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01033466367539938834noreply@blogger.comBlogger22125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-888066280269687039.post-7311432594571436092008-01-01T05:22:00.000-08:002009-11-26T05:23:03.256-08:00No Frogs in EastwoodMy child presses her face to the glass at the zoo.<br />“There’s one,” I say,<br />pointing to the golden mantella,<br />to the rain forest blues and reds.<br />She sees. She answers, “Frog.”<br /> Science News says, “Frog Populations Decline.”<br />My daughter feels no loss.<br /><span class="il">Frogs</span> are as plentiful as ever<br />on the pages of picture books,<br />where they squat beside giraffes,<br />unicorns, dragons, and dinosaurs,<br /> each as real to her as the other.<br />Really real would be a barefoot child<br />splashing in a farm pond, squealing in pursuit<br />of a creature too fast, too slippery to hold.<br />Real would be falling asleep<br />to the plunking, rubber-band chorus.<br /> My job is to make it real<br />for a child with no backyard creek<br />on her forty-foot city lot.<br />“See it jump? See it jump?” I say.<br />See how the skin glistens?<br />See the strong, splayed legs?<br />The delicate, pulsing throat?<br /> She sees. Sees the marvelous, comical form,<br />but not (not yet) the sign that reads, “Endangered.”<br />It is my job to make her fall in love<br />with what is passing. It is my job<br />to prepare her heart for breaking.<br /><br />Cheryl Gatling<br /><br />published in River Oak Reviewcherylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01033466367539938834noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-888066280269687039.post-5868399370811054732007-01-01T05:15:00.000-08:002009-11-26T05:18:44.366-08:00Crossing Over<p><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-style: italic;">As my eyes grew accustomed to the light, details of the room within emerged, strange animals, statues, and gold—everywhere the glint of gold. It was all I could do to get out the words, “Yes, wonderful things.”</span> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i>--Howard Carter, on discovering King Tut’s tomb</i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">The preschool door opened, and I could not stop looking.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Everywhere, wonderful things…</p> <p class="MsoNormal">cardboard blocks colored like bricks,</p> <p class="MsoNormal">wagons, balls, wooden stove and sink,</p> <p class="MsoNormal">everything bright, everything just my size.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Then Miss Porter bent to talk to me.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Her hair slid forward over her shoulders,</p> <p class="MsoNormal">shining like a river of pennies.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I couldn’t talk. My throat was swollen with wonder.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">But Miss Porter’s green eyes smiled.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">She led me to the toy kitchen, and put a doll in my arms.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">My baby had a brown face, and brown yarn hair</p> <p class="MsoNormal">that stuck straight out like the rays of the sun.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Mommy stooped to kiss me, but kissed only my hair.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I had already turned away.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I had to feed my radiant brown sun baby.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I held the bottle to her pouting plastic mouth,</p> <p class="MsoNormal">and Mommy was gone. The floor lurched briefly then,</p> <p class="MsoNormal">as I launched into my preschool life. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">It would be a new world, but I was not afraid,</p> <p class="MsoNormal">provisioned as I was with stackable rubber sandwiches,</p> <p style="line-height: normal;">plastic apples and bananas, dress-up hats,</p> <p class="MsoNormal">a cot and a blanky, everything I would need,</p><p class="MsoNormal">everything I could imagine needing.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p style="text-align: right;" class="MsoNormal">Cheryl Gatling</p><p style="text-align: right;" class="MsoNormal">published in Atlanta Review<br /></p>cherylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01033466367539938834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-888066280269687039.post-65216226739868235532007-01-01T05:07:00.000-08:002009-11-26T05:08:49.442-08:00Leah<span style="font-style: italic;">Jacob served seven years for Rachel, and they seemed to him but a few days because of the love he had for her. Then Jacob said to Laban, “Give me my wife.” But Laban brought his daughter Leah, and gave her to Jacob.</span><br /><br />He removed my wedding veil without candle or lamp.<br />He could not stop sighing, Rachel, Rachel,<br />except to kiss, and not even then,<br />breathing my sister’s name into my mouth.<br />The first time fast and hungry, then he woke<br />to caress everything, to trace<br />the bumps of my spine, the hollows of my knees.<br />I tried to remember not to speak, but the “ahs”<br />escaped. Finally, exhausted,<br />he held me wrapped by both his arms and legs.<br />And I waited in the dark, knowing<br />that no matter how many years we would spend<br />living as husband and wife,<br />I would never be loved that way again.<br />And I watched the tent wall slowly go<br />from black to grey, my heartbeat<br />counting the minutes, until he would see my face<br />and scream.<br /><br />Cheryl Gatling<br /><br />published in Willow Reviewcherylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01033466367539938834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-888066280269687039.post-43997345352035488722007-01-01T05:03:00.000-08:002009-11-26T05:04:06.233-08:00The Things He Gave HerFirst his letters, burned in the driveway.<br />The ripped photos she threw in the kitchen garbage,<br />followed by wilted salad, blobs of cheese.<br />The books, with their inscriptions (“love always”)<br />went to Secondhand Words, clothes to Good Will,<br />even the gold silk blouse, even the teddy.<br />Items fell from her like so much ballast.<br />Her hair was brushing the lintels of doorways.<br />Only the weight of her shoes held her feet to the floor.<br />She dug the rosebush (innocent live thing),<br />dumped the tangle of root and thorn at the curb.<br />Even (who would have thought) the salad tongs.<br />As the gold chain slipped from her neck,<br />the last strand of tether snapped.<br />It flew, 22 karat airborne brilliance.<br />It plopped into the lake in sinuous ripples.<br />And she floated into the crowns of trees,<br />surrounded by wobbling green leaves.<br />Startled birds exploded off the wire,<br />a shimmer of feathers around her head.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;">Cheryl Gatling<br /><br />published in Gingko Tree Review<br /></div>cherylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01033466367539938834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-888066280269687039.post-9485524978222396852007-01-01T05:01:00.000-08:002009-11-26T05:02:25.155-08:00Nursing the LostAt fourteen months, she doesn’t need the milk.<br />So why continue? It’s no longer about<br />nutrition, immunity, bonding,<br />or comfort at bedtime. It’s just this:<br />once the milk is gone, it’s gone.<br />There will never be another child to feed.<br />The doctor saw to that.<br />For every beautiful thing that is gone forever,<br />for every kiss that will never be kissed,<br />for passenger pigeons, Tasmanian tigers,<br />for paintings and poems burned in the purge,<br />for hope winked out in any kind of prison,<br />for every soldier dead in every war,<br />Come, I lift my shirt.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;">Cheryl Gatling<br /><br />published in Gingko Tree Review<br /></div>cherylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01033466367539938834noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-888066280269687039.post-16869461251280348032007-01-01T04:58:00.000-08:002009-11-26T05:00:57.713-08:00Swedish Christmas BreadBecause he was a neighbor, Mother said.<br />The wind flapped her skirt around her knees.<br />She tottered slightly on the icy snow.<br />Still, she kept her grip on the foil-wrapped package.<br /><br />He was unshaven, dogs around his legs.<br />He took the package, heavier than it looked.<br />Sweet dough, dense with raisins and walnuts.<br /><br />In the morning, they blamed the kerosene heater,<br />tipped by a careless foot, or a dog’s tail.<br />As the school bus chugged past the rubble,<br />every face turned to watch the smoke.<br /><br />But I, only I knew that the man whose ashes<br />still smoldered beneath the blackened beams<br />had died with the taste of honey on his tongue.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;">Cheryl Gatling<br /><br />published in Gingko Tree Review</div>cherylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01033466367539938834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-888066280269687039.post-38847327065540343632007-01-01T04:43:00.000-08:002009-11-26T04:48:18.966-08:00The Patron Saint of WritersHe is old, scrawny, his back hunched<br />from study, his fingers gnarled.<br />What harm can this man do,<br />busy at his pen-scratching?<br />But see? The old man’s ink-stained hands<br />stroke the muscular back of a full-grown lion.<br />The paws, big as plates, and heavy,<br />flex their claws. The jaws rumble.<br />Wherever the old man shuffles, the lion follows.<br />They are inseparable, best of friends,<br />the dry, cerebral scribe, and the hunter<br />who will crack your biggest bones with a snap,<br />whose favorite flavor is blood, who loves<br />the raw chewy muscle. The writer bends now<br />over a text extolling the mercy of God.<br />The lion rubs against his leg and yawns,<br />showing, then sheathing, the always-ready teeth.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;">Cheryl Gatling<br /><br />published in Atlanta Review<br /></div>cherylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01033466367539938834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-888066280269687039.post-58189641994151239362007-01-01T04:30:00.000-08:002009-11-26T04:41:51.665-08:00Then We Became SwansYou and I, wild, flying home,<br />our two long-necked shadows<br />rippling over the valley floor.<br />It is good, mounting the cool air,<br />your wing beside my wing,<br />but I am tired, and home is far.<br />Where is the shine of silver water?<br />Where are the rushes to shelter our sleeping,<br />shoulder to shoulder, and neck to neck?<br />Your sleek head, your feathered back<br />are my home. Below us,<br />the man raises the gun and aims.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;">Cheryl Gatling<br /><br />published in The Cliffs "soundings"<br /></div>cherylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01033466367539938834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-888066280269687039.post-43256988264830365042006-01-01T16:35:00.000-08:002009-11-23T04:53:14.082-08:00Love Song with Cruise Control<p>One by one, their heads nod, then drop<br /> into a chorus of muffled snores.<br /> Only I remain awake, holding the wheel.<br /> I pilot these tons of steel at lethal speed,<br /> twisting past drop-offs, abutments, massive trucks.<br /> Husband, child, baby, how thoughtlessly<br /> each of you drops your life<br /> into these tired and slightly achy hands.<br /> It would only take a flick of the wrist,<br /> a moment's inattention. And yet you sleep.<br /> And still I drive. The thought of your fragile,<br /> precious bodies fills every mile,<br /> a surfeit of joy and terror.</p> <p align="right">Cheryl Gatling</p> <p align="right">published in <a href="http://www.drury.edu/section/section.cfm?sid=239" target="_blank">Gingko Tree Review</a></p>cherylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01033466367539938834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-888066280269687039.post-27429171946999363622006-01-01T05:23:00.000-08:002009-11-26T05:24:49.981-08:00Infant PneumoniaShe wouldn’t suck. She wouldn’t cuddle.<br />Her eyes rolled toward me, then away again.<br />I hugged her to my chest and ran<br />from the doctor’s office to the X-ray lab.<br />There they jammed her into a plastic tube<br /> with her arms above her head,<br />still in her white T-shirt, crying.<br />“That’s good,” the technician said.<br />“It expands the lungs.”<br />When they handed her back,<br />I wouldn’t lay her down again.<br />I slept that night in a chair,<br /> holding her up so the mucus would drain.<br />In sudden, sharp focus, I cherished it all:<br />the sweaty spikes of her damp hair,<br />the rattling vibrations of every breath.<br />I hold no moments more precious than these,<br />the nearly unbearable,<br />a pain so pure, it was almost like happiness.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;">Cheryl Gatling<br /><br />published in The Sun<br /></div>cherylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01033466367539938834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-888066280269687039.post-68446776396030045182006-01-01T05:06:00.000-08:002009-11-26T05:06:55.845-08:00Every Day With BabyAs I walked across the bridge she cooed and bounced,<br />then lurched backward out of my arms,<br />over the railing. I grabbed. I missed.<br />Her heavy head cracked on the sidewalk below.<br /><br />I stumbled on the gravel towpath,<br />and she rolled into the canal.<br />The water was so brown I couldn’t find her.<br />I splashed and groped, touching only fuzzy rocks.<br /><br />The Doberman at the corner snapped his leash.<br />He charged too fast. He dragged her off,<br />gnawed her limbs until the crying stopped.<br />Yet we made it home, hit by only one truck.<br /><br />I fed her dinner on which she choked.<br />I gave her a bath in which she drowned.<br />I laid her in her bed where she rolled over and suffocated.<br />Tomorrow when she wakes we will do it again.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;">Cheryl Gatling<br /><br />published in Willow Review<br /></div>cherylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01033466367539938834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-888066280269687039.post-42386326282116899292006-01-01T04:55:00.000-08:002009-11-26T04:57:07.971-08:00KneesIt was church rule. All women and girls<br />must wear a dress that covered their knees.<br />In the hidey-hole under the hedge behind my house<br />I hiked my skirt, and hugged my knees.<br />Each bony knob fit in the cup of one palm,<br />and my chin fit between them. Wind played<br />with the baby-fine hairs. Pine needles tickled.<br />How funny the skin sliding over the kneecaps.<br />How soft the damp hollows behind,<br />where my fingers felt my heart beating.<br />When Mother called, I crawled out. I stood,<br />and the cotton fell in a ripple down my legs.<br />Now we would go to church and hear about Jesus.<br />He died on the cross, but first they stripped him.<br />He went naked to save us. All Jerusalem,<br />and all heaven saw his knees,<br />saw the boat of his hips, the wings of his shoulders,<br />his ribs, and long bones, and things I dare not name.<br />I wondered, I did not ask,<br />how could shame live in any body part,<br />after God had burned inside it like a sun?<br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;">Cheryl Gatling<br /><br />published in Comstock Review<br /></div>cherylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01033466367539938834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-888066280269687039.post-71567234864921390322005-09-01T16:37:00.000-07:002009-11-23T04:52:27.315-08:00Honeymoon by Train<p>She sat on the suitcases.<br /> He went again to the counter<br /> to ask when it was coming. "Late"<br /> was all they would say. It was almost two.<br /> Married fourteen hours,<br /> nothing left to say. They sat,<br /> missing their connection in Chicago,<br /> missing the ferry in Michigan,<br /> losing their hotel reservations.<br /> But now the platform was humming.<br /> And now he was lifting her up<br /> onto the narrow shelf bed<br /> where they began the creak<br /> squeal, lurch, and clang into their future.<br /> Out the window it was passing,<br /> slowly, then faster: backs of warehouses,<br /> backs of factories, junkyards,<br /> wrapped in trash and shadow.<br /> Then, "Look," he said, "it's Instant Whip."<br /> A spotlighted billboard: white, red, clean.<br /> "Instant Whip," she repeated,<br /> in her fog of love and fatigue.<br /> She would remember this sign, this night,<br /> as years blurred like trackside trees,<br /> his socks still on the floor,<br /> the gas tank left empty,<br /> her lip numb from biting back words;<br /> she would remember her head on his chest,<br /> his arms around her, rocking, rocking,<br /> how like whipped cream<br /> the expectations heaped on the plate<br /> collapsed in the mouth like so much air,<br /> but leaving the taste, sweet,<br /> yes, sweet.</p> <p align="right">Cheryl Gatling</p> <p align="right">published in <a href="http://www.thesunmagazine.org/" target="_blank">The Sun</a></p>cherylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01033466367539938834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-888066280269687039.post-52055416261758440962005-01-01T17:00:00.000-08:002009-11-26T05:13:52.222-08:00Poem About Faith<p>I’m kneeling in the shower,<br />naked, wet,<br />peering down the black hole of the drain.<br />I can see my gold earring there.<br />I can just grip it with the tweezers,<br />but I keep dropping it.<br />Careful, steady, squeezing tight,<br />almost up, and the earring falls.<br />I’ve been at this a long time.<br />I’m going to be late for work.<br />But I believe I can do this.<br />I believe two people can stay married for a lifetime,<br />that we can rescue troubled kids,<br />that this war will end.<br />I believe in forgiveness.<br />I believe God loves us.<br />And again, the earring falls.<br /></p><p><br /></p> <p align="right">Cheryl Gatling</p> <p align="right">published in <a href="http://www.comstockreview.org/" target="_blank">The Comstock Review</a></p>cherylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01033466367539938834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-888066280269687039.post-9678175593187016632005-01-01T05:10:00.000-08:002009-11-26T05:12:57.943-08:00The MarkOn every stoop a paper.<br />At 149 Shotwell Park, a balloon,<br />a box of chocolates, a sheaf of roses.<br />It’s six AM. Another hour, and doors will open.<br />Men and women in various shades of gray<br /> will shuffle out, yawning, to pick up<br />their Post-Standards and Wall Street Journals.<br />At 149 Shotwell Park, one woman,<br />(or maybe a man) will touch the roses<br />and burst into peach and pink and gold,<br />her robe glowing emerald, jade<br /> and electric chicory blue.<br />Someone here is loved. And you,<br />for whom I wrote this poem,<br />you also bear the mark. Go to the mirror<br />and touch your shining face.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;">Cheryl Gatling<br /><br />published in Comstock Review<br /></div>cherylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01033466367539938834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-888066280269687039.post-85427854423873850562004-01-01T12:41:00.000-08:002009-11-26T04:38:18.290-08:00Letter to John, No Longer Mine<span class="Apple-style-span" style=";font-family:Times;font-size:medium;" ></span><p><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;font-family:Times;font-size:medium;" ></span></b></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">John, there is news, and not news.<br />That I am still digging, diligently,<br />to remove what I never planted, is not news.<br />That you are with me in the garden,<br />that the firm white flesh of the taproot<br />is you, and the tickling fronds of yarrow<br />are you, this is not news.<br />But the work is hard. And today,<br />as I chopped, hacked, slashed, and wrestled<br />with mullein as big as a shrub, and roots<br />in mats and roots in balls, and tangled nets<br />of runners that have no end,<br />I leaned back on my heels to catch<br />the cool breath of air on my prickly skin,<br />and Buddha was there. (Now this is news.)<br />And he said, "Free yourself of desire<br />and be free of suffering."<br />I said, "What do you think I'm doing here?"<br />And St. Paul, too, was there, exhorting me,<br />"Do not gratify the flesh. Set your mind on the spirit."<br />"Right," I said. "Right."<br />Then Seneca, too, that Stoic:<br />"Be satisfied with your present condition."<br />But do you think even one of these men<br />would pick up a shovel? They sat in the shade<br />arguing their theories and lies,<br />as I, with my hands in the earth,<br />could already feel the tickle of underground roots<br />wiggling their slow, persistent way back up,<br />seeking, again and again, John,<br />the light that is your face.</span></p><p align="right"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Cheryl Gatling</span></p><p align="right"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">published in </span><a href="http://www.engl.iastate.edu/publications/flyway/homepage.html" target="_blank"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Flyway</span></a></p><p></p>cherylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01033466367539938834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-888066280269687039.post-30644982637437440952004-01-01T04:51:00.000-08:002009-11-26T04:54:16.860-08:00Schrodinger's NewspaperI push open the creaky screen door,<br />and stoop down to pick it up,<br />because I must know.<br />It comes rolled up with the headlines inside,<br />a fortune cookie stuffed with misfortunes.<br />Crack it open, and suffering will spill out.<br /><br />I hesitate. Until I smooth the paper flat,<br />tyrant and victim hover, suspended.<br />Until I read, the bullet hasn’t left the gun,<br />the hammer hasn’t hit the skull,<br />the suicide bomber hasn’t pushed the button.<br />The nails and gunpowder will stay<br />packed tight in their satchel under the shirt.<br />The girl in the market will stand forever<br />with her hand on the melon, smiling.<br /><br />The odds are clear. Death will take his share<br />and not be cheated. I open and read. I ache,<br />knowing what I can’t stop, what already is.<br />And yet, every morning<br />my front steps are still here. My screen door,<br />the wet grass, the neighbor’s cat, still here.<br />The rolled baton of newsprint on the step<br />is cool proof that the presses ran all night<br />in that big building downtown, also still here.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;">Cheryl Gatling<br /><br />published at bornmagazine.org</div>cherylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01033466367539938834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-888066280269687039.post-32830226955187183732004-01-01T04:17:00.000-08:002009-11-23T04:49:41.077-08:00The Arithmetic of Grief<p>--"My imagination... doesn't cope well with big numbers" -- Wislawa Szymborska</p> <p>They told me a hundred thousand died<br /> in the blinding flash, in the poisoned air.<br /> I began to calculate a hundred thousand:<br /> two thirds the city of Syracuse,<br /> two packed Carrier Domes.<br /> Still, what is a hundred thousand?</p> <p><i>It is me. I was there.<br /> Skin hung from me in sheets,<br /> and not a cloth to stanch the bleeding,<br /> as all my clothes had burned away.<br /> The rest of my family never came home.</i></p> <p>We grieve in particular, not en masse.<br /> It's not two million Cambodians,<br /> but the rows of skulls,<br /> the cracked femur unearthed by the plow.</p> <p><i>My crime was knowing how to read.<br /> They smashed my glasses<br /> before they kicked and pushed me to the field.<br /> I worked so tired, so hungry, I wished I could die.<br /> When the club hit my head I wanted to live.</i></p> <p>It's not five hundred thousand cancer deaths,<br /> but Debbie in her hospital gown,<br /> the bird-like frailty of her bones.</p> <p><i>I noticed the mole. I didn't ask the doctor.<br /> My little boy will never recognize<br /> the robust woman beside Daddy in the photographs.<br /> His mother was too weak to pick him up.</i></p> <p>Maybe it's true<br /> our imagination is moved by singularity.<br /> Still the human heart can hold<br /> the sufferings of thousands, even millions,<br /> one life plus one life,<br /> one plus one plus one.</p> <p align="right">Cheryl Gatling</p> <p align="right">published in <a href="http://www.english.uwosh.edu/review.html" target="_blank">Wisconsin Review</a></p>cherylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01033466367539938834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-888066280269687039.post-22548441651311213062004-01-01T04:16:00.000-08:002009-11-23T04:50:29.287-08:00Even the Nails in the Sheetrock Missed Her<p>When she entered a room, the room paid attention.<br /> When she entered his house,<br /> the leather couches plumped up and shone,<br /> the hardwood floors were giddy with tapping<br /> against the soles of her small black shoes,<br /> the books on the shelves jostled each other<br /> for a better view of the waves of her hair.</p> <p>When she didn't come, the walls held their breath,<br /> straining to hear her voice, her laugh.<br /> When she still didn't come, that crying noise wasn't him.<br /> The white gauze curtains hung keening,<br /> as they remembered the stroke of her fingers.<br /> And at night, when he turned and turned,<br /> it was only because the bed prodded him continually,<br /> as the pillows pleaded in his ear, "Bring her back."<br /> And when he sat up, his hand on his chest,<br /> how could he breathe,<br /> when all the air had gone out into the street<br /> calling her name?</p> <p align="right">Cheryl Gatling</p> <p align="right">published in <a href="http://www.rattle.com/" target="_blank">Rattle</a></p>cherylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01033466367539938834noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-888066280269687039.post-88321161566434026662004-01-01T04:06:00.000-08:002009-11-23T04:51:21.210-08:00Letter to John, No Longer MineJohn, there is news, and not news.<br />That I am still digging, diligently,<br />to remove what I never planted, is not news.<br />That you are with me in the garden,<br />that the firm white flesh of the tap root<br />is you, and the tickling fronds of yarrow<br />are you, this is not news.<br />But the work is hard. And today,<br />as I chopped, hacked, slashed, and wrestled<br />with mullein big as a shrub, and roots<br />in mats and roots in balls, and tangled nets<br />of runners that have no end,<br />I leaned back on my heels to catch<br />the cool breath of air on my prickly skin,<br />and Buddha was there. (Now this is news.)<br />And he said, “Free yourself of desire<br />and be free of suffering.”<br />I said, “What do you think I’m doing here?”<br />And St. Paul, too, was there, exhorting me,<br />“Do not gratify the flesh. Set your mind on the spirit.”<br />“Right,” I said. “Right.”<br />Then Seneca, too, that Stoic:<br />“Be satisfied with your present condition.”<br />But do you think even one of these men<br />would pick up a shovel? They sat in the shade<br />arguing their theories and lies,<br />as I, with my hands in the earth,<br />could already feel the tickle of underground roots<br />wiggling their slow, persistent way back up,<br />seeking, again and again, John,<br />the light that is your face.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;">published in <a href="http://www.engl.iastate.edu/publications/flyway/homepage.html" target="_blank">Flyway</a><br /></div>cherylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01033466367539938834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-888066280269687039.post-18711934014342180792003-01-01T04:21:00.000-08:002009-11-23T04:48:19.161-08:00Between Fear and Sex<p>The doctor said, "No intercourse."<br /> He described how the spasms of orgasm<br /> could squeeze a tenuously implanted fetus<br /> right out of the uterus.<br /> He clamped his two hands together,<br /> made a squishy noise with his mouth.</p> <p>We comply. But not touching at all<br /> had felt like death between us.<br /> My husband holds me, runs his hands<br /> over my body, kisses me and kisses me,<br /> and I cry. I dread that touch<br /> that might cause too much pleasure.<br /> But there, between fear and sex, is need.</p> <p align="right">Cheryl Gatling</p> <p align="right">published in Clark Street Review</p>cherylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01033466367539938834noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-888066280269687039.post-22856761765391861002000-06-19T05:42:00.000-07:002009-11-26T05:47:06.527-08:00testing typingSo this is the first line<br />This is the second<br />This is the thirdcherylhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01033466367539938834noreply@blogger.com1