Helen Klein Ross
(USA)
REQUEST FOR ASYLUM
A German company has introduced a line of stuffed animals that suffer from psychiatric disorders. —Time Magazine
We seek simple lodging.
Would you have us?
We will sit peaceably
in our beautiful wounds.
Do not be afraid
to take us into your bed.
We mean you no harm.
We are leopards clawing
only at our own terrible spots,
lions gone slack with a cow’s
self-abnegation. We are decorative
additions to any room. Wolves
identifying as sheep
sport handsome woolens.
Hyenas, elective mutes,
come in ten screaming colors.
We arrive with histories and plans
for treatment. How easing
the soft shell of the agoraphobic
turtle. We see that you need us.
Our eyes, those blind marbles,
fathom what you do at night
to yourself, flailing against
the obliterating down.
(originally published in Salmagundi)
THE DUNKEL RESTAURANT, BERLIN
Come, traveler. Leave
your coat here in the bright
outer room. Do not be afraid.
Your companions are blind
waiters. They are kind
and you can trust them.
They will explain the placing
of objects: spoons at twelve o’clock,
forks at six. Knives? Nothing
needs to be cut. Taste the sadness
of April in our spring meadow
soup, the sweet acquiescence
of fish without bones. Drink in
black air tender and smoky
with meat. In darkness,
the simplest conversation
magnifies in importance.
The advance of our waiters
will teach you the character
of the ground. Do not attempt to move
through the dark on your own.
No smoking. One lit cigarette
will illuminate a room. Children:
we advise against them. The highlight
of the evening will be a surprise.
—from an advertisement
(originally published in Salmagundi)
PARROTFISH
Like you, I was born. Drab,
gray, female, the first
of nine hundred children.
Relatives abound. I do my best
to avoid them. I do not play castanets
nor attend hotel conventions. We all
harbor the notion that we are unique.
I sleep alone wrapped in a fine, wet cloak
that issues from my head, made fresh
every night, like dreams. How asleep
I was until my mate shimmied
through coral, flashing his bright
turquoise tail and fin. We built a nest
in a cave and furnished it with a choice
piece of driftwood. I put down my eggs.
Some eggs were bad and we had to
eat them. When our young left,
my mate left, too. I became male
myself. Now I am large. I am
colorful. I am finally noticed.
(originally published in Mid-American Review)
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BIO
Helen Klein Ross is the creator and editor of The Traveler’s Vade Mecum, an anthology of new poems prompted by old telegrams, published in October 2016 by Red Hen Press. Her poems and essays have appeared in The New Yorker, New York Times, Los Angeles Times, and elsewhere. She lives in New York City.