Poetry Magazine, Helen Ruggieri, February 2003

Poetry Magazine

Helen Ruggieri

USA

APPROACHING 
THE GATES OF HELL

You hear first the great din -
baying and barking, growls and yelps,
as you cross the first river the pack
moves toward you, tails awag, ears up.

Shep who guarded your carriage,
put away for killing chickens;
Skippy, the cocker spaniel who sulked
if you wouldn't throw his ball;

Lady, the gun shy hound who got hit
by the truck when you let her loose;
Bruno, part chow, who pulled you everywhere;
 Strider, the mutt, who attacked the mop.

They come when you think of them,
dancing out of the pack,
Brandy who widdled with joy
leaving a path for the others.

They gather around
wagging their whole back ends,
leaning into your knees,
taking their due.

Together you pass the gates of horn
with nods from Cerebus
who knows to make an easy crossing
for those who come with their dogs.

PURPLE HEARTS

America is legion with disabled
from internal wars
prisoners of self esteem
persuaded by anonymous notes:
 no good
 never were
 won't be

Under the onslaught
they've folded their papers
capped their pens

What they are, what they love:
  a curse from a crowded god
and even Rodney Dangerfield
gets more respect

White haired generals with
beards and degrees on their sleeves
pontificate dogma and dactyl
heroes of the bore wars
making sure each line
marches in Rangoon
anything else:
       out of croon
    swoon
  Doublemint tune

Oh, yes, girls with uncapped breasts
panting in the front rows
long crossed legs to open wide
but even that sometimes
isn't enough

One noticed he really could sing
started a group, another sold birds,
group policies, socks and bends

One moved to Florida
bought a boat
sits on deck
staring at the horizon -
sometimes, it stares back

One calls early in the a.m.
wanting to know if I'm still
at it, wants me to explain
  give a list of reasons
habit
obsessive compulsive
what else?
clean house?
  which can't
  erase his dissatisfaction
  lull his insomnia
  his colorless dreams
  by a cordless phone

  All my warlost warriors:
     prisoners
     shell shocked
     MIA
     veterans
  who late at night
  under artificial light
  open the blue velvet box
  where they keep their
  purple hearts

POETRY IN 
SPECIAL ED. CLASS

They follow Mrs.Gow:

one with a shaved head
 stitch scars a faint purple

one looks with slanted, wide-set eyes
 over a flattened nose

one sucks his thumb
Down’s syndrome, Down’s syndrome

another walks forward on his toes
 swaying as he goes

another, another, another, another

Just a visitor here, I prompt:
let's take a trip
 to a beautiful place
close your eyes
 what do you see?

Darkness, one replies.

Look closer, I urge
and slowly a place is made
flat and calm:
 sun
 tree
 flower
 dog

I spell p-r-e-t-t-y and w-a-t-e-r
hold the paper while they print

I want to rush the letters
out of those laborious pencils
but I slow myself
sip the rhythm of this world

we make our place
they smile at me
they follow Mrs. Gow