POETRY

HEAR ME!

HEAR WHAT I'M NOT SAYING

HEAR THE CRYING OF MY FRIGHTENED SELF HEAR THE LONGING TO BE HELD AND LOVED

DON'T JUST HEAR THE WORDS

LISTEN

PLEASE

LISTEN

TO THE FRUSTRATION

THE FRIGHT IN MY GROWING

HEAR WHAT I'M NOT SAYING

Pinocchio stood on my roof

and laughed.

He laughed at my name and my faith.

My faith and my people. He knew only my mother, yet he claimed all he could.

He took away my love

and ate my food.

He stole my dignity.

Now I am a vegetable. BROCCOLI.

Jane E. Caruso

I. I take the q-tip

and stroke my lips.

They are moist tonight.

As darkness unfolds

my lips open.

I dare not plunge my fingers

between the lips.

I will wait

sue holton.

Holding on the ledge

with her fingertips

she said casually

to her neighbor.

'Have you got a cigarette?'

He whipped one out.

and lit it for her.

The air became nervously silent

Finally he said,

'When's this going to end?'

Shying away she said.,

'What's that supposed to mean?'

He sneezed,

and smiling,

pushed her off the ledge.

Grabbing her cigarette

out of her hand

before she fell.

Jane E. Caruso

page 4/What She Wants/December, 1974

a mat

clean off your dirt

on me

walk all over

me

stamp on

me

mutilate me

destroy me

does it make you any

better?

feelings

hurt

tossed

thrown

molded

mixed

happy

sad

played with

feelings...

emotions caused by...

reactions

attitudes expressions gestures situations

... people

Pat Tabak

for another night

when I am more daring

to explore myself.

to explore my self.

II.I spread my legs apart to enter the bus.

It is hot

and moist.

I spread my lips apart,

I smell the sweat.

The bus jerks,

the tires roll through

the sticky, melting asphalt.

The bus reverberates.

It vibrates my lips.

My womb is empty-

hollow, a hollow cavity.

The cavity vibrates.

Stop

It is thrust backward

into place

where it has always been

until now.

Karen Tierk

I cannot give of myself totally for if I did

there would be nothing left, for me

I must keep some of myself to myself alone

secret from the rest of the world

yes

Moving

I empty my house, trying to leave you,

tired of seeing in mirrors

broken images of myself.

The movers come

and wrap the round silver shapes in papers,

crate the marble coffee table carefully,

and take wide low steps

when they walk

under my queen -sized mattress.

Sandra Love

Mother: Daughter

I know who she is,

my daughter,

as she toddles after me, grabs my legs,

even secret from you

pushes through thighs she came through.

Each day I comb her hair,

turn her skirt right side out, fit her socks around

her fat pink toes.

She likes my suede jacket

to rub;

she puts it on, flapping

its empty sleeves.

She sticks marshmallows into her mouth,

and on her cheeks they dry

like etchings.

When she hurts,

she cries with her three-year-old soul,

Sandra Love

sue holton