Shann Palmer can be reached at shannp@sprynet.com.

Mrs. Grape

rose in mild discomfort on the makeshift

bed and marveled at her girth, her arms

so rounded white, her dimpled knees.

There were pleasing aspects to the bigness

she endured. How had this rolling billow

of a woman come to be? She had been

something else, there was a part of her

still that was only ample, not amazing.

Dreaming, as she sometimes did between

choking snores that roused her half-awake

to wipe thin lines of drool, turning the damp

pillow, she had not dreamed herself this

way, she had not sensed herself at all. She

could lose her self twice and still not see.

There was a once a man who would take her

wrists above her head, encirling them

between his thumb and forefinger, holding her

not quite immobile there while he plowed and

played on the immense landscape of her.

Feeling the flex of buried muscles, parting

thighs enough to feel a change of air,

she remembered his rough touches.

Her fingers would not make the circle now,

hardly made the halfway mark, she put her

arms up high as if to grasp the headboard,

as she'd done with him, and found they would

not obey but make only a curving arch

that would not reach. She could not touch

herself, never really had even then, but she

needed more than her thoughts could give.

Deep in the night she would perform this

ritual of desire, again and again, her wants

undiminished by the very bulk of her heart,

shallow breathing frightening her with

thoughts of death without knowing a man's

touch where she could not. She wished

for sunlight on her back, faint breeze between

her legs, she wished to grab her toes, running

thumb between each one, scratch behind her

knee. Drifting into this vision,the waxing moon

began it's journey, and she held up her hand

to the light, thumb to index finger in a perfect "O"

marveling at the beauty of what she could hold.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

twisting

lemon peels into spiraled

sugar strips unrivaled

goodies homemade by

Aunt Mina Dean and the gaggle

of girls that worshipped her

womanly ways and means

to "get a guy" listening intently

hard rain keeping us inside

we'd strain to catch nuance

for our own assault practice

what she'd shown wet lips

pressed to virgin flesh as if

bare forearms would give

some clue of boys scrappy faces

licking fingers letting tongues

linger not knowing what

we did or what we would do

sugar and tart the best combination

for the moment spice and salt

would come soon enough to girls

not yet aware of springs to be

passages around the bend of time.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

plots

as if we got to pick them out

tick tock the same despite perception

sense of sequence imperfect memory

we never do enough

time is what marches

I learned that on TV

the clock on the cable box

doesn't agree with my computer

if I die at home there could

be questions

"chop me up and pass me all around"

stewing up a spew of scatter-shot blame

I have at the closest target backhand

rattling the jawbone of an @ss in your face

his face but behind her back biting

I heard Shakespeare did seven but maybe

that's hills mountains make the man

how many times can the Titanic sink?

I want to see the movie but I'm afraid

there could be a subliminal message

telling me to see it again in a week

I don't mind being manipulated

to cry I mind when there isn't any

manipulation and I can't stop

hot cross buns-one's a plenty

I took a daily iron shot for anemia

ONE"S A MEAL the neon flashed

Aunt Wynter was delighted I asked

for food a plate-sized waffle every

square bled butter and maple syrupyl

"a few bites, baby, a few more bites"

now I'm fat I just wanted to please

"what I did for love"

see above

"what I did for love" 2

cremate my leftovers

there's a memorial garden

at Holy Comforter a few friends

wrought-iron fence the Montessori

kids play there I don't know why

this came up tonight it could be

the conspiracy of forced flowers

it's much too warm for March.