Subject: dissolve (poem)
From: "Kathleen J. Kramer"
Dissolve
I'm sitting not quite in front of the window,
wooden shutters slightly spread,
no . . . they're all the way open
with blue and white calico curtains,
yeah, and it's raining . . . but warm
and very green outside. We're at his summer home,
no . . . it's a cabin, and his name is Jeremiah
and I'm some crazy woman
he found with slit wrists.
We don't speak the same language
and have the best sex, ever,
no . . . well kinda, keep the rain and the green
and I'm still at the window.
The cabin smells like bacon
and nobody's heard of cholesterol.
My hair's pulled back except two pincurls and
my tight gingham dress makes my tatas
look as good as fresh-baked bread.
But it's not a cabin, it's a cafe . . . by a train station
and I've never been married but am greatly admired.
He's some saddle tramp I see ridin' up
as I prick my finger with my sewing needle,
no . . . it's 1942 and I'm still by the window
but he's a crop duster and I'm cutting onions
so he won't know that my tears
are caused by the shirt clinging to his chest,
sleeves folded neatly above each bicep bulging
as his large hand lifts
my fragile chin while I accidentally
squeeze my paring knife into my thumb.
I look into his brown eyes, shadowed
by the rim of his aged hat,
no . . . he's been raised proper
and left it at the door, and his hair is parted
perfectly on the side,
no . . . it's parted in the center
and falls in his wide eyes.
He needs a good cut and a shave
and I'm just the girl to do it,
no . . . I resist because no man buys the cow
if he can get the milk for free!
And I run, hands in my apron,
and he grabs my elbow, spins me to him.
The onions fall to the floor
in slow motion . . .
He pulls me close and we exchange
a look that dries my eyes.
His lips part slowly,
he begins to speak,
*Nooooo . . .*
copyright 1994 kathy jo kramer