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week of February 28 - March 6, 2011



Sari Krosinsky and Michael Estabrook



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Death of a Mauve Bat! | Sinzibuckwud! | We Put Things In Our Mouths | A Man With No Teeth Serves Us Breakfast
I'd Like to Bake Your Good | Stolen Mummies| Brendan Constantine is My Kind of Town | Up Liberty's Skirt | Feeding Holy Cats | Mowing Fargo
I'm a Jew, Are You
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Sari Krosinsky
michal_kro@hotmail.com

Bio (auto)

My poems have recently appeared in Adobe Walls, Arsenic Lobster, Collective Fallout, Contemporary American Voices, Long Island Quarterly, Main Street Rag and others. I edit Fickle Muses, an online journal of mythic poetry and fiction. I received a B.A. in religious studies and M.A. in creative writing from the University of New Mexico. I live in Albuquerque, N.M., with my partner and cat.

The following work is Copyright © 2011, and owned by Sari Krosinsky and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


Home remedies

The morning you said you might
be pissing out your life again,

the sun came up in your face.
My doctor prescribed exercise, so

I’m fucking you every other night
like I haven’t since our first year

in this house. You lick my tongue,
taste skin, coffee, cannabis. Blood beats

like the hearts of humming birds
in my throat. Coming

home some nights, I’m so proud
if I make it all the way inside

instead of giving up on the front steps.
Now, I let the tv keep me company

while you teach. Forgetting, I look round
to catch your reaction in your empty

chair. I’m almost sure
you’ll return to me. How will it be

when I’m sure you won’t?
Even the days I’m too depressed

to let you touch me, I need to smell
your sweat wetting the sheets next to mine.


Sons

When the midwife held him toward me,
I raised my hands, palms out—
she thought to take him. If I could
have spoken, I’d have said, not me.

As soon as I could stand, I only wanted to get out
of the family-clogged den, to be alone. For the first time
in months, my body was my own.

When my nephew learned I’d carried him,
he wanted his birth father to be you. No such hurdles
will snag your son and me, born a month apart.

The night we three exchanged musics, the echo
of your voice, your face in his
nearly unsaddled me. When his cats
curled in your lap, I thought, maybe he smells like you.

I’m tempted to think he’ll be a piece of you
left when you’ve gone—like me.
Someone to mourn with.

I remember before my nephew was born, how he
would prop himself heel to rib, head to cervix
and stretch with more might than any fetus should have.

I haven’t learned much else ten years
since. I haven’t been around
to answer questions he hasn’t asked.

I wonder if, like you with your son, I’ll have to wait
’til he grows up before I know
how to speak to him.
Sometimes, you don’t know still.

Seeing how your son rides
your voice, I don’t believe mine
will ever find reins to hang onto
in me. I know nothing of horses.



Michael Estabrook
mestabrook@comcast.net

Bio (auto)

Michael Estabrook lives in Acton, Massachusetts, and is a baby boomer who began getting his poetry published in the late 1980s. Over the years he has published 15 poetry chapbooks, his most recent entitled “When the Muse Speaks.” Other interests include art, music, theatre, opera, and his wife who just happens to be the most beautiful woman he has ever known.

The following work is Copyright © 2011, and owned by Michael Estabrook and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


Life goes on

We tune in by accident
to the end of Castaway,
poor Tom Hanks discovering
that in the four years he has been lost
at sea stranded on a desolated island,
his beloved wife Kelly has remarried.
“You are the love of my life,” she sobs,
holding tightly onto him. But what can she do?
She thought he was dead and has a new life now.

I comment that I wouldn’t be able to stand that,
losing my wife, the love of my life, to another man,
no matter what the circumstance.
“Such a sad and terrible thing.
I would be devastated, you know.
I don’t think I could bear it,” I conclude.

“Oh come on, life goes on,” she states, shrugs,
and pats my shoulder.

Death of a Mauve Bat! | Sinzibuckwud! | We Put Things In Our Mouths | A Man With No Teeth Serves Us Breakfast | I'd Like to Bake Your Goods
Stolen Mummies| Brendan Constantine is My Kind of Town | Up Liberty's Skirt | Feeding Holy Cats | Mowing Fargo | I'm a Jew, Are You
Lizard King of the Laundromat
| I Am My Own Orange County | Paris: It's The Cheese | Poetry Super Highway | Judaic Links
Rick's Bookmarks |
Cobalt Poets | E-mail Rick | Other Cool Rick Stuff / Upcoming Readings | Who The Hell Is Rick