White

At the monkey-feast table

We are gathered at the table

all generations: it is low

to the floor: we sit cross legged: pass

bowls of bright food: share one

to another: I am reminded

of the gifts we give and find in odd

places: the atlas of anatomy: how

your father pointed to the plates

of facial muscles and said look: these

must be Jews: it was a German artist:

we were silent and our hands were

still: years later he had a letter

from a granddaughter: he had praised

the work: she had responded: I do

not recall the answer: I cannot

ask him if we truly used: studied

the murdered: if dates and times

were as he had surmised: this table

has a hole in the middle: just

as Gram said: just as in her girlhood

in rural China: there would sit the

monkey alive and frantic: soon the top

of his skull would be lifted: and we

would hold sharp spoons.

Sixteen

I am so helpless. I want to help him.

I love the boy. He loves her. He cuts

himself. He cuts into the burned places

of his own skin. I want to kiss that skin.

I want to hold him curled and warm

in my own heart. I want to make him

well. I love him. I have held him as he

vomited out the poisons he gives himself.

I have cleaned the sticky smell from his

mouth and kissed it. But he does not love

me. He does not remember those nights

when I took care of him. He does not

remember holding me back. He does not

listen to my love. Her. And she is hard.

Her. And she turns her back. I say: she

is not that good a person. I say: She

is not that pretty. I say: I love you.

I will. I will. He cannot hear. He wants

what he cannot have. He wants

what she will not give. He will not listen

to my love. Will. Won't. Mother, can

a good person believe she is better

than another? Mother?

Stuffed and Roasted

In general, people are idolaters.

Look at the pyramids--

their property was confiscated

when the cumin seeds began to darken.

You cannot escape from your fixed place in history;

statues cracking and toppling over,

holding the taut bow-string of spiritual practice,

the minced liver, the gizzard, and heart.

Completing his apprenticeship:

by the time I got to the check-out counter

it had a large cavity inside;

the animals were sweet and mild.

(C) Kelley Jean White 2001

Kelley Jean White

Born and raised in New Hampshire, Kelley has worked as a pediatrician in inner-city Philadelphia for the past twenty years.

"I started sending work two years ago with very modest goals but have had somewhat surprising success, with over 450 poems accepted or published by more than one hundred journals. A book of my "medical" poems, The Patient Presents, has been published this spring by The People's Press in Baltimore and a chapbook of very different material, "I am going to walk toward the sanctuary," will be published very soon by Nepenthe Books/Via Dolorosa Press."



						At the monkey-feast table We are gathered at the table all generations: it is low to the floor: we sit cross legged: pass bowls of bright food: share one to another: I am reminded of the gifts we give and find in odd places: the atlas of anatomy: how your father pointed to the plates of facial muscles and said look: these must be Jews: it was a German artist: we were silent and our hands were still: years later he had a letter from a granddaughter: he had praised the work: she had responded: I do not recall the answer: I cannot ask him if we truly used: studied the murdered: if dates and times were as he had surmised: this table has a hole in the middle: just as Gram said: just as in her girlhood in rural China: there would sit the monkey alive and frantic: soon the top of his skull would be lifted: and we would hold sharp spoons. Sixteen I am so helpless. I want to help him. I love the boy. He loves her. He cuts himself. He cuts into the burned places of his own skin. I want to kiss that skin. I want to hold him curled and warm in my own heart. I want to make him well. I love him. I have held him as he vomited out the poisons he gives himself. I have cleaned the sticky smell from his mouth and kissed it. But he does not love me. He does not remember those nights when I took care of him. He does not remember holding me back. He does not listen to my love. Her. And she is hard. Her. And she turns her back. I say: she is not that good a person. I say: She is not that pretty. I say: I love you. I will. I will. He cannot hear. He wants what he cannot have. He wants what she will not give. He will not listen to my love. Will. Won't. Mother, can a good person believe she is better than another? Mother? Stuffed and Roasted In general, people are idolaters. Look at the pyramids-- their property was confiscated when the cumin seeds began to darken. You cannot escape from your fixed place in history; statues cracking and toppling over, holding the taut bow-string of spiritual practice, the minced liver, the gizzard, and heart. Completing his apprenticeship: by the time I got to the check-out counter it had a large cavity inside; the animals were sweet and mild. (C) Kelley Jean White 2001

	Kelley Jean White Born and raised in New Hampshire, Kelley has worked as a pediatrician in inner-city Philadelphia for the past twenty years. "I started sending work two years ago with very modest goals but have had somewhat surprising success, with over 450 poems accepted or published by more than one hundred journals. A book of my "medical" poems, The Patient Presents, has been published this spring by The People's Press in Baltimore and a chapbook of very different material, "I am going to walk toward the sanctuary," will be published very soon by Nepenthe Books/Via Dolorosa Press."