One looks at the flaw and rejects it, ignores
its otherwise firm and blushing skin;
pushed aside for one with no outer
faults, nor guaranteed inner beauty.

The branches
speckle with imperfection as
over and over again they are
left, destined for the the press.

It is the way we pick
apples, so obsessed with beauty fit
well to our hand, driven toward the next
which may possibly exceed the last. Happily, we
cart our bags back to the trunk,
each selecting the chosen one to eat
on the way home. We compare, compliment and
complain as we gouge away--too grainy,
tart, juicy, crisp,


soft-silently wondering,
which one was best
and who had it. Then at home,
following tradition, we gather ‘round
the cider jug and taste
the faultless blend,
the anonymous
blood of neglected
fruit, quietly claiming
victory.



Laura King, 5/7/09

Music of a Deaf Cat…

Laura king/2009

Her quicksilver concerts demand
sudden attention,
white paws scaling ivory-ebony keys,
fill our resting air with dissonance,
she totally unaware. Startled awake I
scan the room, resent this pre-dawn
game of hide-and-seek
with a composing cat, who shatters sleep.
Her predeliction towards Beethoven
imitations boldy counters night, yet
she hears none of it; only knows that, like
every other night,
I will find her, spy her single fang
Shining in a sliver of moon.
My scolding words the encore,
Her purr the applause.

Me jazzin,’ me cat!
Me playz all night, me playz all dayz
Me crrrrraaaaaaaaaaa-
Zee cat!
Tail twitch wid’ a beat,
Same beat in my feet’n dey
Hipz and they hopz
‘til I’m on da top of da piiiiiiiiiiii
ana, and so,
da piana man go, he say, “Get down, blame cat!
Me playz za keys and you in my way, you
Crrrrraaaaaaaaaa--
Zee cat!”

Spring Snow

Spring Snow, like an unwanted guest,
showing up uninvited,
assuming hospitality, just being itself, while
cars curse and swerve.
Spring Snow, like a bill past due
directed at you,
that you assumed was paid in full,
yet wanting more and MORE.
You slow through the snow squalls and
worrisome white outs, behind the wobbly line of cars,
to the parking lot, yes, a bit late,
to the jumble of kids, waiting for you,
to "why are you late?" and trunk and doors opening
for the only ones totally unaware of the trouble,
completely oblivious to the air's annoyance,
the only ones that really matter on a day like today:
Weekend teenage skiiers,
in love and in step
with the sky's final burst
of spring white.

Getting a New Brain...

She told me she was getting a new brain,
streamlined, hotwired,
without the 20 cm lump, but at that moment, I
couldn't get mine to work, to send a message
to my mouth to form meaningful words
and ouput them toward her.
She told me it, the lump, had been growing for the last ten years,
secretly culturing in a frontal lobe hideout,
until it had its coming out party on the MRI screen, earning
immediate star billing.
"It's coming out next week, or 'so-they-say,' Tuesday,
unless they change the day again; they've done that, oh,
a few times now, 'cause it's benign-no worry, no hurry,"
I felt my lips begin to move, but
"hey, it's okay, I'm fine, just a headache here and there,"
I nodded instead,
imagining some foreign body inside, growing,
finding space within my space,
wondering what are the odds, benign? malignant?
knowing that the difference between her and me
was the God that let her hope and the one
that left me questioning,
why?
I nodded and smiled at her, now walking away with a cheerful "bye"
and I tried to accept it all at face value:
A benign tumor would soon be taken out of her brain.
The end. I tried in the silence
to still my thoughts
me, left alone,
mouth
closed.

Digital Native, I'm not...

well, you probably can imagine I've been having some computer problems after you read this...thank heavens for digitally enhanced children!

Contemplating my problem of tech,

My computer's now a pain in the neck

The microphone's broke

Soon my project will choke

And my patience resembles a wreck!

Oh, if I had been born post- the eighties,

My brain cells would be more like Bill Gaties',

My fingers would fly and tech problems would die,

but instead I crave vacations in Haiti.

Go native, they say...and it's fun,

I use laptop and cell when they run,

But my brain speed is still "slow"

when the programs don't go,

these problems are more for my son!

Sarah came in and found me typing her words into the computer. She had misplaced her hat and suspected it was still in the cubby in my room. Sarah had been part of my literacy group for little over two weeks, and in a group, she is quiet, unless she didn't want to do something. Then, she'd get mad, calling everything stupid and dumb. But right now, she's not quiet or mad...
"Hey, are you typin' what I said in my book? Hey, are those my words, hey, can I see, can I hear me sayin' 'em?"
I catch up to her by saying, "Why, hello, Hailey? What brought you back down here? Isn't it time to go home? Oh, your hat. Yes, yes, I'm typing up your story. Would you like to hear you reading?"
"Well, can I? I don't know how that dumb micaphone works anyhow."
I explain how it's not the microphone that stores her recording from earlier-that it's stored on the computer. Then, I proceed to play the slideshow I was making, complete with her words, pictures, and voice...
"That's me! That's really me!" she says,
with this smile that tells me
she likes it more than other things she has to do in this
'dumb school.' She calls everything about school dumb or stupid,
but maybe not the 'micaphone,' maybe it's not so dumb,
as she just sits there and listens and asks me to play it again and again,
her sweet simple story,
her sweet little voice,
her.