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poet: UMA ASOPA
poet: MARY HAMRICK
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UMA ASOPA
Camouflage			
Her flame will consume her to ash, but it's her own - sacred, devilish or disowned. She will stand by the parapet, stare at the fading afternoon, and watch him approach. Before the bell rings she is downstairs all smiles - washed of dips, downs, and streaks of smoke. She is a tray of tea now blended, flavored and fresh - a connoisseur's favorite import.

Copyright 2006, all rights revert to the poet.
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MARY HAMRICK  
Ginetta's Secret 
Stan swats his girl five shades lighter than blueberries. His secret history--a shameful thing. Sometimes my lips swell like Brazilian cherries and I swivel away from him. I swivel toward him, burnt useless under his gaze. And sometimes by 1 a.m., he?s whittling notches onto this tropical body, so I come ?round to his way: his drive, his wish, his craving. Nasty blood vessels pop on his forehead-- must I beg again? My body is a quiet room of imperfection: strip off the skin and look for yourself! Late morning, Momma visits and says, Ginetta, you have dark silent-movie eyes that sing ballads of last night. Huddled by the kitchen table kneading flour into dough-- my womb is exposed on a long, powdered table. Fingers pinching as they crush, lift, slam?vigoroso. Tired limbs slip downward onto a chair, a chair all-knowing and full of devil details. Momma sits like a man, her long cotton dress is open-wide, her floured dusty apron reeks of pungent citrus fragrance. Let?s see, Momma--how can I describe pain? My small mistakes will resurrect hands that knuckle the body sticky-sweet. Old woman, let me tell you the secrets of each night that shies and smalls a woman. . . . and after the evening meal, he will holler, lay down. Whey-faced, I will smell like almond milk; my lips will swell like Brazilian cherries as I slide in place under the slope of Stan?s bony framework.

Copyright 2006, all rights revert to the poet.
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