Poetry Magazine, Grace Cavalieri, December/January 2002-2003

Poetry Magazine

Grace Cavalieri

USA

RUBBER DUCKY

Because the American doctor believed
Italians held their babies too much
I was left to stay in my carriage. 
My grandmother rushed in with
yellow rubber gloves for me
to hold like a hand. Apparently the
fingers slick and silky felt
like skin because 
I'm told I finally stopped crying.

After that, they gave me rubber
when I could not be consoled.
What my mother held I do not know,
so disciplined against her yearnings.
I like this story, the kindness of a grandmother, 
caught in a culture she didn't understand --

One day I stopped vomiting,
allowing myself to be nourished,
probably because I was used to
the yellow gloves of mercy, but maybe
beneath the canopy, separating lace layers,
when no one was watching, maybe it was 
my mother, with her small hands, who timidly reached in.

Somebody Shoot Me
While I'm Happy
….Fats Waller

And what do you suppose the
bureaucrats said in 1968 when
I asked the Art people for two hundred dollars
for stamps to send out my poems.
They asked if I was some kind of housewife
writer from the suburbs who made the trip to town.
I shouted who I was, and the sculptor in the back
jumped up and yelled Right On!
This is the way I got my maxi-length coat
in spite of it all, to spite them all -
It was long and black to the ankles so I could
look more like the artist I was. The mail would wait.

Two Year Old Boy Beaten 
To Death For Soiling His Pants

Then I turned the TV off,
then I did what women are known to do
    so well all throughout the years,
then I went to sleep from it.
    In the waking was the moment
before - the boy could not hold his body's seizure
his mind could not bear the threats awaiting -
and I took that  like a chip from him 
turning it into a crystal that could lodge 
in my chest to stay.
    After that it was easy. I took him by
the hand, we walked around my
large yard, I said "that is a tree," and he said "tree" -
I said "That is a day lily," and
he touched the yellow petals. In this way he
learned the marvels of the world and,
waiting for the Morning Glory to open, we walked
along together, away, a far way away.

TO THE STALKER

You want us to say your name?
Well here is my song, Thunderman. 
You are not a velvet balloon caught in our throats
To keep us from screaming,
You are not constant  
Like rain, although you'd like us to think so,
You are not Phantom of our opera
Glimmering an ancient moon
at night, behind our eyes. Oh no, nothing so lovely.

You are pressed marshlands rotting in the chest,
Murders in blue light,
Razors in my apple.. 
You drag your knuckles
Across our silence and when we rest
Even for a moment
You throw the switch, electrocuting the God
Strapped onto a chair in your heart.

Rt. 235

What I saw was the school bus stop,
    a father waiting for the child
    a small boy jumping off
    the father grabbing his hand.
What I did not see was the man greeting him
    with a hello or a smile.
I did not see the boy look up. He looked down at the ground.
What happened was the father pulled the boy
    too fast toward the house, so fast
the tiny legs could not keep up,
What the boy did not want was the door to close.
What I wanted to do was stop it.