Lori Romero
(USA)
A SONG REMEMBERED
From some crevice in the day
A song reaches across
The shoulder of time
Reminding us of lost minutes
A tune neither sad nor joyful
Brief fragment of a longer melody
Like the sigh of a sleeping baby
Or the whisper of lovers at 2 AM
Then it is gone
A witchery of sound
A passing cloud
A rusty key under moss in the pond
AN EVENING OF CIRQUE AT THE SWAMP
The river beaver beats
a pounding rhythm on the low bank,
its tail a trowel that lays down a lodge,
a teepee home of willow branches and mud.
From a rising curtain of fog, delicate ducks
with white teardrop patches around each eye,
gray-brown feathers over ivory bellies,
take the stage paddling to syncopated ululation.
The ducklings are transported to the water’s edge
where eight whirligig beetles skate in synch.
Frogs and lizards sing a chorus
as they float on vessels of leaves and twigs.
Two monarch butterflies pulsate.
Four wings, iridescent screens of orange and black,
balanced with hypnotic precision, move Tai Chi slow.
Quivering bellows, like lungs, breathe in and out.
A red crowned crane,
its neck as long as today and tomorrow,
lands by a silver spotted skipper
poised on pink perfumed swamp hibiscus.
Wonder springs all around
as golden-ringed acrobatic
dragon- and damselflies
flutter and flip through the air.
Spiders yo-yo on bungy cords
hanging from bur-reed.
Mosquitoes vibrate on short stalks,
mist-wrapped vines vamp along water’s edge.
As playful river otters circle
the bogbean and water mint,
white-faced ibis join
with a quick flick of feathers.
Honking geese and hoverflies
festoon the Big Top
in the grand finale
under a dandelion moon.
BOSQUE DE SOMBRA
My dark suit’s pressed
back in the closet at last.
I am the egg blown
hollow of yolk and white.
Breath thin as chambray.
Clouds pass
rain is absent
drought tightens dirt.
In the bosque, the place
where bark beetles burrow
in sweet piñons like cancer,
I will bind my infested heart
until the dogwoods bloom.
DESERT MANDALA
Wrapped, dormant
until its shell cracks
and the sunset
reveals colors of a heart:
blood jasper,
terra cotta, coral, the ache
of wild strawberries.
Clouds spill and puddle
behind the Sangre de Cristo mountains
and send coyotes crying out
for the moon& rsquo;s tallow silhouette.
Horse-faced shadows
wander the vacant arroyos
and leave the kiss of sage on rain so light it has no shape.
FEAST OF THE SEVEN FISHES
My aunt’s house —
purple drapes puddle on the floor
a fainting couch in the corner
Rococo crested sideboards and armoires
cherubs on wallpaper borders.
Part dollhouse, bordello,
and haunted house with crazy clocks
ticking madly away on every wall.
It is here we celebrate the feast of the seven fishes,
an Italian dinner tradition on Christmas Eve.
Calamari, clams and mussels simmer
in tomato sauce. Boiled shrimp and crabs
pink while whitefish bakes in the oven.
My aunt’s baccala recipe, a state secret.
No one in my family knows why
it’s customary to have seven courses of fish.
Some say it represents the days
of the week. Others say it’s because seven
of the Apostles were fisherman.
It is as everything is in this kitchen,
a ritual waiting to happen.
In my aunt’s house —
spoons clink and clocks chime,
musical as church bells in Palermo.
LETHE-WARD
The memory of you rises from evening merlot
the fragrant leavings of a linden in fall
you harbored the rapture of blue from a peacock’s neck
the silence in a wildwood’s heart
you knew the calligraphy of a coastal morning
gourds swelled in places radishes had been
in you a dream was swallowed by a lazuli sea
from you the dark fit in two ordinary hands
LITTLE PIG MOON
Capsized in a sorghum sea,
bodies buoy, kisses murmur
like whetted waves
over briny blind spots.
In you, silence juts,
my heart sounds the hour.
In you, a sleepy beach town
waits to waken.
In you, a water song
lies under scarred scales.
Sunlight is slippery,
and as little pig moons
fall from fullness in a dying sky,
we lose sight of sails
under the weight of rain.
MEDEA
Your greatness grows, Jason,
like the smile of my knife.
I was your keel, your breastbone; my hands
the oars that powered us. Entangled seaweed
steeped in bitter water, we skimmed past a hunter’s
moon. Waves leapt like wolves sighting lambs,
foaming at the mouth, chasing us out to sea. I tried
to conjure away doubts, useless tricks that lulled
serpents, but left me withered. Now I know
your promises were bloated sails of sirocco in a deranged sea.
Docile as fleece now, I let my blade
speak for me, mince words, rant and rave,
cut chasms across small passageways
to remove proof of passion. Along the river,
anthers stick out of autumn crocus
like bright red tongues.
This knife has sung our boys to sleep.
This iron heart, a vacant widow’s walk.
METAMORPHOSIS
I carry your tiny frame to the tub
Water –
alien to you,
when only a short time ago
you were amphibious,
wriggling
like a fish behind a floodgate
A forced
separation
pulled you
from a mermaid sleep
Dark eyes now watch
indigo liquid
perform
a Balinese
trance dance
around fat goose legs
surreptitiously
stealing
part of you
away
OUTFLOW
A romance passed through them,
a small town twister that left
the smell of old water in pipes. Knee-deep
in quiet, they salvage what they can.
Coverless books, coffeemaker,
wristwatch. Noise from a couple
in the next apartment sweeps
around the emptying room like a rasp of wind.
PANDORA DESCENDING: ASHES AND SPARKS
While Epimetheus
Is preoccupied putting out his brother’s fires,
His wife sits vacantly in their little hive
Like a smoke-dazed bee
She’s a back lit babe with honey-colored hair
A little clay pot festooned with flowers
A scoop of vanilla ice cream in a gold cup
A one hit wide-eyed wonder
Clara Bow lips dangle
Below “Who Me?” eyes
Breasts pour off her chest like funnel cakes
Her pink tongue, like a sleeping snake,
Nestles around a necklace of pearl white teeth
Ennui is her only companion
Until curiosity undulates in under the door
Like rain to thirsty roots
A tongue to a sore tooth
A naïve moth to flame
Bumbling fingers swarm all over the box
She was warned not to open
A container with more surprises
Than a package from the Unabomber
When she lifts the lid
All the evils that were carefully tucked away like Christmas linen
Pop out like Chinese firecrackers
And scatter about the room like an upended jar of marbles
Trees shiver
Dinners go cold
Flowers lay their sweetened heads against the decaying sand
Wives and husbands stare at chipped
Formica tables and wonder what they’ve missed
But our prom queen still has one more item in her shopping bag
Finding its way to the top like rising cream
A little hopeful Prozac latte
To wash down the mounting dread
Twice a day with a sensible meal
Her constitution’s as good as gold
And the eyes of Fate
Are stone-blind again
PARTING SHOT
My sister and I wake before the roosters
begin insulting each other. Our whispers
bring the cats close – the Russian Blue,
weaned too early, suckles the blanket.
I’m leaving for school today, packing up my half
of the eleven-steps-from-bed-to-light-switch
room we share. Aileen, cross-legged, picks
at her plum-colored nails, angry I’m going
away and she’s not. “That’s my CD,”
she says. I know it isn’t, but in the spirit
of détente, I toss it on her side. She snaps
her gum in response. Betrayal underscored
in kohl. It suddenly seems important
to recheck the dresser so nothing
is left. The folding screen that divided
us is pushed against the wall. Aileen
stands swaying in the light like a sunflower.
The morning’s peevish heat slides away,
cats curl about our legs. I unnest
my hands from my pockets,
and Aileen and I subtract the steps to the door.
POEM HOLDING HEAT WITH CLASPED HANDS
Heat, you are the leopard’s moan
under a jackalberry tree.
The sundered earthworm seeking itself
and the pink-mouthed birds who hunger.
You are the curled, damp hair tumbling
to the forehead after collision of bow
to string. The lips that cull
juice to the surface of plums.
You are the impetuous flick
of a gypsy’s skirt. Swatches of skin
brushing in cicada shadows
as the wind lifts curtains.
POLAR BODY
Our argument turns into the Iditarod, leaves
us exasperated and bone-tired. Words cut
angry fissures on the surface; a waste of sea divides us.
Silence breaks against our feet and hands and arms.
You pace, back bristling. I can’t sleep, my brain a midnight sun.
Nostrils searing, I clean the refrigerator: shriveled apples
in the cold drawer, a Tupperware container sprouting lichen.
You fix the leaky window that drips when the wind turns mean.
Outside, a winter storm rasps its last breath. You hunt
me out through the ice in my breathing holes –
the cosmic dive of Arcturus. Your hands become roots
that break through frozen earth in spring thaw.
SUNFLOWERS, WHEELBARROWS AND RHUBARB
My sister and I hitch a ride.
Wide-eyed sunflowers atop dark marl
urging dad: “Faster, faster!”
He rolls us past succulent strawberries,
hiding their blush behind delicate green fans.
Past fat, spiny leafed zucchini, elbowing
other plants, demanding so much space.
Past ripe tomatoes and grapes that birds
have been eyeing for days.
Past rhubarb, poisonous leaves the color
of toads, bitter pink stalks that turn into sweet
tarts and ginger jams. Finally,
we spill out where snails
creep at the coldest hour of day,
potting ourselves as we push seeds
under with small worm fingers,
faces following the sun.
THE KISS
In the middle of our marriage,
we became fog –
clouds unwilling to fly,
and then you put your mouth
on me, and I borrowed the shape
of the sky and left my graven
image on you.
THE PURPLE POPEYE
Brett, four-time marble champion,
owner of legions of small stone spheres,
his booty at the bottom of a backpack,
walks to school,
crunching through fall leaves,
the color of gold and red
cat’s eye shooters. Pumpkins smile
from fence posts. A cold wind
nips heels like a sheep dog
corralling him to a gray building
where bright buses belch children
out on hopscotched sidewalks. The playground
becomes the diamond district, drawstring
bags pulled from pockets as eager eyes
set upon Clearies, Aggies, Pee Wees, and Rainbows.
Faces with traces of milk mustaches and smelling
of cinnamon oatmeal crowd together as
Slags clack like casino chips. Fierce bidding
drives some to financial ruin; others
amass wealth in grubby fists. The new boy,
dressed in the wrong clothes, Levi’s too pressed,
tie tight around a skinny chicken neck, Adam’s apple
jumping up and down like a prodded frog,
places his only property in the center of the ring.
A Purple Popeye agate, once belonging to his grandpa.
A honeycomb of color in clear glass. The Hope Diamond
never received such ecstatic oohs and aahs. It is over
in a single shot from Brett’s Blue Swirl, which resembles
a whale in a white foam sea. A wave
of admirers carry Brett to class. Alone,
the new boy slumps on library steps,
perfectly shaped shimmering orbs,
roll down the contour of his cheek.
THIS SIDE OF PARADISE
In the photo my mother wears
a Vandyke brown fox stole,
fastened by one long snout
biting the tail of the other,
nagging a constant circle,
doppelgangers chasing denouement.
Manicured fingers,
that favor Ritz crackers and roe,
curl around a beaded purse
I know contains a wad of tissue,
a wrinkle-less five dollar bill,
and a tube of siren-red lipstick
sardined inside a mirrored case.
My father, Brylcreemed, a little dab’ll do ya hair,
face marble heavy, holds her arm,
the same grip used to steer her clear of the curb
after one of Uncle Harry’s martinis,
the same grip used to pull her back in the car
when she tried to leave. Survivors of touch,
but not passion. Tristan and Isolde.
They face the camera, in front of their first home,
whose plaster facade barely conceals coiled wires
that sizzle and throb with high velocity
teeth tingling currents. Overloaded fuses
blow and lights pop like flashbulbs.
TRANSIT OF VENUS
This is my mother –
born six feet tall,
grew to five foot two.
She wants to be a dancer
like Margot Fonteyn,
but she is pregnant
with my sister.
She leans against
a maroon Ford Sedan,
feathery garments
loose, belly atop
waddling swan legs.
I am not here yet
to lie in the rear
car window and watch
street lights slash across the dark,
or smoke candy cigarettes,
or corral fireflies in mayonnaise jars,
or catch cooties
from my fifth grade crush,
or lose my roller skate key
in the rusty underworld of the thorn
bush near the window well,
or see my mother’s mind
become a pas de deux.
Madison WI February 2011
THE WARP OF DREAMS
I sleep under Dreamcatchers
that should sift my reveries
like cake flour
The malign from the benign
the inevitable separation of Spider Woman
I envision wicked dreams
flying through the center hole in the web
confused, lost in unwoven shadows
Good dreams trickling
down beads and feathers
to me waiting below
like a bear under a honeycomb
But my pillow appears
fatigued every morning
I try to recall these sinews of sleep
as I lay under hoops that hold
my hidden desires
but they evaporate like morning dew
when touched by the fervor of the sun
YOU WOULD HAVE
the small angel
I tried to balance
in your folded hands
slid off and fell
below you in the coffin
I never realized
the depth of caskets
nor the cacophony
the cherub would create
as its wings pinged
against metal
on its flight
to the bottom
you would have loved it
you would have chuckled
as the funeral director
flapped up the aisle
like an agitated crow
you would have cracked up
as he myopically measured
and almost lost a button
snaking his hand down the gap
you would have chortled
as his arm disappeared
beneath you
and his face perched
just above your breasts
fumbling for an errant seraph
you would have
Madison WI February 2011 072
Zeitlang
Aunt Connie brings the news:
a child drowned in Lake Harriman,
a classmate of mine, no one heard
the cries for help. My mother weeps
over a bowl of string beans. Too young,
too young, how could this happen? And I,
balefully safe, ghost the screen door. He
played near the water after school, though
warned not to, watching bass jump
for insects in fading light. Tomorrow
the desk in front of me will be empty,
pencils lined up sharp as fish bones.
Campo Co 2010
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http://writersvillage.com/poetry/LoriRomero.htm
Lori Romero is a published poet and fiction writer. Lori is also a playwright, actress and screenwriter. She served as Artistic Director of Friends & Artists Theatre Ensemble in Los Angeles, and acted, produced and directed in other theatre venues. She currently resides in Santa Fe, New Mexico.
The critically acclaimed, The Running of the Grunions, Lori’s first play, was produced at the Flight Theatre in Los Angeles, California. Her short plays, Surreal Estate and Girl Meets Boy, were semi-finalists in The Actors Theatre of Louisville’s Ten-Minute Play contest. Lori’s one-act, Noon Whistle, was one of five one-acts selected to be produced in the Fourth Annual One-Act Festival in L.A., and was brought back as a part of Friends & Artists’ Festival of Women Playwrights in collaboration with The Alliance of Los Angeles Playwrights.
Lori Romero won the Spire Press Poetry Chapbook Competition (NY) for her entry The Emptiness That Makes Other Things Possible. Her first chapbook, Wall to Wall, was published by Finishing Line Press (KY), Leah Maines, Editor. Her short story, Strange Saints, was a semifinalist in the Sherwood Anderson Fiction Award. Lori’s poetry and short stories have been published in more than one hundred journals and anthologies. She was nominated twice for a Pushcart Prize.
Her poetry and short stories have been published in over sixty journals and anthologies which include Citizen32, Quercus Review, flashquake, Plum Biscuit, Copper Nickel, Mystic River Review, Edgar Literary Magazine, Poetry Motel, Pebble Lake Review, Poesy, and Zillah: A Poetry Journal.