Jennifer Herron
Oracle

The birth of winter, with its dead morning
the trees like ancient men,
their feeble arms outstretched
in an entreaty to the callous, compassionless sky.
The panorama dissolves,
and there is only you - in my head
and somewhere
going through the motions
going through the motions
like everyone does
when relatives die.
I imagine you are better off
in that faraway space,
my love, poison-like,
I wished a pocketful of Father Time
or at least the numbness of that blue-gray blanket
filling the sky, the trees, the streets
But No
instead we break
fumble and shake
Instead I sit here open-jawed and moaning, mourning
this wind in my heart, howling in my hollow frame.

A woman has her own seasons, her own storms,
and mine is a bony lifeless carrion,
like the trees envisioning spring
like me envisioning you
and our heydays of yesteryear.
I look up, it's snowing again.
You aren't here anymore.
The ice is like angel dust
encompassing this bitter soil
and the furrows within my breast.
In this October light,
I see consumption
for the swelling rankness,
the emptiness of out empathy,
Falling beneath a tree, I think:
My unborn children, witnesses
to the solid gray masses of my heart.

Hospital

As she piles pills and hankies into sweaty palms,
her phosphorescent lips mold
into a perfectly transparent smile,
the red gleaming
under the yellow fluorescent glare.

His head
restlessly hanging,
swaying side to side,
until suddenly
he hones in
on the swish-swash motion of orthopedic shoes and nylon
(a woman's walk).

Impatiently, his wrist toys with
plastic veins, tugging on
sticky sheets
as her ginger-and-baby-powder scent draws closer.

His gaze
lingers in the haze
over the bedside table,
and with the "tick-tock" clock down the hall
(a woman's walk).

As the creaking metal cart
wheels into his space,
he begins to think
of a different place:

Heels sharpened to vicious spikes
reminiscent of sexy dollar store lipstick
and of trips downtown
and of gloomy video stores
and of strange men in gas station bathrooms
who cry mother, mercy, mayhem
who take long train rides to the middle of nowhere
who spend their lives alone
who drink whiskey in bars on Mission Hill
who end up @#$!ed
finally.

Dully turning back to the television screen,
its glow bathing his diminutive form in blue
This is not serenity,
he thought.
This is not redemption,
he sighed.
And pulling at the tubing,
he cried,
This is not healing!

The words pile into the air,
dangling in the silence for no one.

Ears tune in to
strange hospital noises
the constant blare of late-night television
the hushed talk of dying and death and endless coldness,

Mothers huddle against uncomfortable vinyl,
reading Time magazines dating back to 1984,
waiting for the word
waiting for the news
does he sleep or does he wake?

The sterility has a stare of its own,
and as the perfect hallways lengthen to oblivion,
he remembers

Pop,
they wanted me to die.

Oh yes
deep, guttural groan
from the roommate behind the white curtain,
from his own crusted throat -
Oh yes -
you've been drafted, son -
Of yes -
time to be a herald in a helmet -
Oh yes -
bombshells exploding like fireworks in his blinded face -
Oh yes -
when "on leave" meant fighting in the village instead of the jungle,
Or making love in a grass hut instead of a grass hut -
And Oh Yes -
there is no escape

and again and again
and again he wakes
to that soft, blue-coated bed
and the scratchy warmth of hospital blankets
sealed with sweat, the fear of the dark,
and then -
nothing but snow.

Over the Bridge

A tangle of angles
as I gave through the maze
of crisscrossed branches
winter limbs naked in the twilight
grimly reaching for spring
maddening with delight as the earth
spins its way into warmer weather
but now
I stand on this bridge
overlooking the stream thinly crusted in snow
floating like angels like my lover below
pondering the sky the sea the leaves
the that which is not there
funny how my emptiness reminds you of something…
feeling my feet sink through layers of ice
I tread through the drifts
and navigate through our urban gutter rivers
arriving soiled, tired, and hungry at your door.

Back to Issue 2, 1999