POETRY

no men no bridges can be found

under this salt water rushing over my knees you read on the beach about medicine and art in a magazine you sweat all over

it you cover your eyes

with it there is pressure

over the bridge of your nose meanwhile I am drowning you have no notion

and after I drown

I walk back and don't say

too much about it

are you my ankles

I am your bread

I have soaked in too much salt

you have nothing to ask me for

and we drive home.

colored by another sunset

-Ruth Lepson

COMING OUT ON ST. PATRICK'S DAY

1.

The day the snakes were chased out,

people cheered, toasting the absence

of silent tongues.

Leprechauns dance through clover, green foam splashes over the clatter

of broken glass.

People claim no need

for a holiday,

but change the river

to more festive shades;

orange protests

rebirth,

insisting new chords

be played alone.

2.

She put on the coffee, pushed down the toast,

opened the paper, read the paper, poured some coffee, read the comics,

poured more coffee, read want ads,

drank more coffee,

looked outside,

then looked in,

her reflection

in the toaster,

hand reaching for scissors to cut her hair.

3.

She left the house dressed in lavender

and green,

the taste of orange

was on her tongue.

page 8/What She Wants/May, 1977

--Janet Tobacman

Trantino