Flawed Options

[saore]

Flawed

Linda prepared for bed confident
she could not receive bad news. It was Thursday,
bad news was announced in dreams on Fridays,
but she wasn’t going to take any chances.

After walking over to the drawer and taking out
the tied chicken legs, Linda rubbed the tattoos,
stricken by the taunt of sailors, on the side
of her neck for good luck. Gypsies don’t read

each others palms. They understand
war casualties, letter writing in the fog,
black and white images that make you forget
the wind. She wasn’t going to think

about the fuzz on his back, how it spread
to his buttocks. Teresa walked in the bedroom
with the Acacia oil. She was so thin she was starting
to look like phyllo. The señora want me to brush her hair?

Wait. Please, wash your hands. Mr. Nottingham
will be home in the morning, I want my hair noticeable.
Look at you, skinnier by the day. Certain about not
telling me who the father is?

No señora, he is important man.
He no takes care of my baby. Teresa it hurts,
how many oil drops did you put in the water?
It doesn’t matter, you will work here until you’re due.

** I have never read anything on prose poem form, so I am guessing here.

Flawed

Linda prepared for bed confident she could not receive bad news.
It was Thursday, bad news was announced in dreams on Fridays,
but she wasn’t going to take any chances. After walking over to the
drawer and taking out the tied chicken legs, Linda rubbed the tattoos,
stricken by the taunt of sailors, on the side of her neck for good luck.
Gypsies don’t read each others palms. They understand war casualties,
letter writing in the fog, black and white images that make you forget
the wind. She wasn’t going to think about the fuzz on his back, how it
spread to his buttocks.

Teresa walked in the bedroom with the Acacia oil. She was so thin
she was starting to look like phyllo. The señora want me to brush her hair?
Wait. Please, wash your hands. Mr. Nottingham will be home in the morning,
I want my hair noticeable. Look at you, skinnier by the day. Certain about not
telling me who the father is? No señora, he is important man. He no takes care
of my baby. Teresa it hurts, how many oil drops did you put in the water?
It doesn’t matter, you will work here until you’re due.

[saore]

Thank you Mike. Today I reread a couple of Gisnberg's prose poems, what a delight. The reader really gets lost in his words and images. Yes, this one will probably grow and change in the next couple of months. I wanted to to end the with just a hint at what might be the "flaw" ... Is it "perfectionism"? Racism? Insensibility? Denial? or is all of this part of modern day exclusion, from whatever, even literary circles? Is it an extended metaphor about creativity? we will see how this progresses.

Thank you Mike.