SUE LITTLETON : Family Heirloom
JOHN HORVATH Jr. : Torte
ANDREA FORBING : Malina
POETRYREPAIRS v12.03:028
contemporary international poetry - for your reading pleasure,
poetry from new and established poets and essays on writing


All the fine arts are species of poetry--Samuel Taylor Coleridge




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Family Heirloom Torte Malina  
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SUE LITTLETON
Family Heirloom
  Nancy Crockett was eleven when she got the typhoid -- tucked the grave's green blanket neatly around herself, and went to sleep beneath her tombstone. She had named her doll – who knows? but as the doll drifted down through the family she became Nancy 's namesake.   A hundred years later my maiden aunt and I would unwrap Nancy from her lime velvet winding cloth, once a splendid 1920's tea gown, smooth the dull shattered silk of her dress, the dark human hair framing the insane little face – for, if a doll could be mad, Nancy was raving. Eleven inches from round head to pointy shoes painted on her feet, kid-glove hands with sewn flat fingers, hard rag body with unbendable legs– Nancy's black glass-bead eyes glared malevolently at us over crackled wax cheeks – which is why most of the time she was confined to a drawer.   When she finally came to me, I dressed her in yellow-sprigged navy calico and put her on display. But those wicked little eyes unnerved visitors, who unanimously advised me to find her another home (but not one volunteered to adopt her!) Nancy made you think of effigies, poppets, unpleasant, hooked-nosed old ladies out to test the evening air on a fast broomstick   I returned her to another drawer, whence she emerges on occasion to glower unrepentantly until I feel those jet eyes at my back and decide it's time for her to retire once more from view. And yet ... uncomfortable as she may be as a companion, I am fond of her.  In the balance, Nancy is family.  
POETRYREPAIRS 12.03:028
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I have many things to write unto you but   I will not write with pen and ink
--JOHN the theologian



in individual talent we seek what differentiates one author from another
- T. S. Eliot



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Family Heirloom Torte Malina  
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JOHN HORVATH Jr.
Torte 
I fell next to him. His body rolled over. It was tight as a string before it snaps. The men all piss nine miles from here the haystacks and houses burn men, animals, wagons, and thoughts. They are swelling Frenchmen, Poles, loud Italians, heretic Serb, and dreamy Jews live here in the mountains, among frightening rumors. For me, there are grasshoppers, oxen, church steeples, gentle farms. In the grass, it is growing dark. And in time, silence drizzles again. A world of nothing but water! The woman touches her bun of thinning hair. She laughs The traveler stands in the freezing cold surrounded by drowsy old men. From early morning they stood at the gate, shuffling their feet, coughing now and then Where's my father now? Where? Where's my pride of those days? I became a rainbow, and he maggoty clay. You do not fathom it, though you outlive me. You raced against danger: for as long as you glided on ice you would not sink, Soaked to the skin, but she feels not a thing. They were shouting in a language foreign to me, yet as intelligibly and with words as clear- shining as the brilliant glitter of the sun on apples. nyugat we have gone west west we have gone nyugat
POETRYREPAIRS 12:03: 028
Poetry endangers the established order  of the soul - Plato





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Family Heirloom Torte Malina  
POETRY requires a mature audience ENTER only if you are 18+ under 18? klik here

ANDREA FORBING
Malina
Watching the neon green dress under the black light, my mind is stuck in the polyester fibers. The contrast between fluorescent fabric and sienna skin is stark, mesmerizing my nose takes refuge in the heavy rose-scented body spray. I stick another dollar into the welcoming chasm that is her breast and I get what I came here for. I don't know where she goes home to, nor do I care I don't ask her about her children or the weather or sports I'm spared the idle chitchat of that sort She doesn't pretend to listen or cook me dinner or wash my clothes. She doesn't give me a new tie every year for my birthday, nor does she know how it feels when I come inside her. I don't even know her name nor does she know mine. She doesn't want me to do anything for her. No expectations creep from beneath the amber of her eyes I find no disappointment dwelling there. Her thick dark hair tickles my chin. I welcome her warm flesh fresh from the tanning bed - still warm to the touch. Doesn't she know that those UV Rays might kill her someday?
POETRYREPAIRS 12:03: 028
SUE LITTLETON : Family Heirloom
JOHN HORVATH Jr. : Torte
ANDREA FORBING : Malina

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