6/11/2017 0 Comments Poetry by Martina Reisz NewberryBAD HABITS I miss smoking. The exquisite ritual of tapping, lighting, staring off into the distance while the first deep drag fills the body. My father looked like Humphrey Bogart when he lit up and my sister, Sabrina, looked like Veronica Lake. My other sweet sisters, Kate and Trish, looked like art photos. “Fuck this!” has so much more oomph when you’re holding an English Oval or a DuMaurier or a gaunt Virginia Slim. Forty years since my last, goodby drag, still I dream of it. I see myself cool and thin, blinking through smoke, holding the cigarette aloft with tapered fingers sporting painted nails. I could avoid food when I smoked, pared down to ninety-nine pounds one year. Loose-tongued, throaty, mysterious, cool–– that’s the image of me that formed when the smoke spiraled then cleared. There was a man, an artist, fine-boned and sad, who lit them for us after sex. Paint on his fingernails added flavor I thought. He died shortly after we started our affaire de coeur. Walked straight into a bus while reading a flyer about a new art show opening. Hell! I can’t tolerate more wrinkles on this face (especially around the mouth) nor can I afford dark thoughts about dire diseases. My hands have showy dark spots that I’d rather not display and the mystery that once was me is now revealed in one hundred ageing ways. All that being said, I thank you, tobacco, for those short years of charm and boozy dreams. Though I no longer purchase cigarettes, inside I still smolder and burn. Be on the lookout, World of Woe!I’m lighting up. PRECOGNITION I see you turning in your bed, you itch everywhere and there are no bedbugs, no fleas, no insects. Something does this to you each and every night. It is not love. It is certainly not peace. I see you at the kitchen sink. You are washing the sink. It’s not dirty and you spilled nothing into it. But you see filth each and every day that you come to the sink. It is not Obsessive/Compulsive Syndrome. I see you lying by the pool. You are slick with tanning oil. There is no sun. The sun left long ago when times got tough and people got greedy and ate the sun. Now there is only gray light. It is not fog. I see you holding the head of your last lover in your hands. It is not a fake. It is a totem.You keep it next to your reclining chair in front of the TV. The smile on the face of your last lover is not a pleasant keepsake. I see you at the dining room table. You are not eating there. You are not making a scrapbook. You are drawing a picture on the table. You dip your finger in mayonnaise and draw boxes in three dimensions. I see you at the aquarium. You are watching the sharks make circles as if they were in the sea. You tap on the glass. They don’t acknowledge you. You tap dance.You scream at them.You spit. No one notices. I see you at the altar. You are fingering a chalice made of clay. You are eating sticks of incense, lighting them first, then eating them When you speak, smoke comes from your nose and mouth. Incensum istud a te benedictum, May this incense blessed by You ascendat ad re, Domine, arise before You, O Lord, and may et descendat super nos misericordia Your mercy come down upon us † tua. I see you turning in your bed, you itch everywhere and there are no bedbugs, no fleas. Something does this to you each and every night. It is not love. It is certainly not peace. You scratch a final time and lay quiet. Now you understand everything. Et verbum caro factum est et And the word was made flesh and Habitabit in nobis dwelt among us‡ DANCE FLOOR, MEMORY FLOOR There is a widening split in memory’s floor where too many sweet things disappear. We grasp at echoes and loves as if they were silvery eels, coasting through rapid waters. Memory’s floor is no place to dance. It’s a cabochon and will slip you up. Who wants to fall while the dance music plays? So, we choose Now and Here. Strong, cheery weeds push up through the concrete. There is the blonde sky. There are clouds assembling, rituals of food and smoke, tides sparkling and racing… everything reflected on the skin that covers us. I love this universe that gives us time to learn, time to follow the bight and sparkle of our own breath. I say mend that chasm with clay and spit and promise, then dance all over it, never stopping to rest. BY AND LARGE The sun is faithful, tries to recall why it cannot bleach out terror from the planet. Every day it stands tall, confident that THIS will be the day all squalor burns off the earth after dewpoint. Poor sun… the minutes proceed, the hours jet by, and though the light on water is fine and bright, though shadows chase each other among the sunlit trees, so little changes. There is some reparage when shards of sun warm a shivering dog or heat the sidewalk under a homeless citizen. Still, by and large (as my dad used to say), very little changes. At 5 pm, the sun speaks. Sorry, it says, failure . is mine. I’ll try again tomorrow. Please understand the implications of my strife, all the implications of my struggle, are in the stars. Stay where you are. Stay tuned. I may return. Bio: Newberry’s books are NEVER COMPLETELY AWAKE (Deerbrook Editions), TAKE THE LONG WAY HOME (due out in late 2017 from Unsolicited Press), WHERE IT GOES (Deerbrook Editions), LEARNING BY ROTE (Deerbrook Editions), RUNNING LIKE A WOMAN WITH HER HAIR ON FIRE (Red Hen Press), LIMA BEANS AND CITY CHICKEN: MEMORIES OF THE OPEN HEARTH (E.P. Dutton &Co) Her work has been anthologized and widely published in the U.S. and abroad. She lives in Los Angeles with her husband, Brian Newberry, a Media Creative.
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