Summer 1982 • Vol. IV No. 3 Contemporary American PoetryJuly 1, 1982 |

The Abortion

When they met her hands could cradle a fish.She could pluck his smallest hurtsLike barnacles from a baby's face.And when he betrayed her with a womanTwice her age and a boy half, she would holdHer breath like a diver looking for pearls.And when she was a girl, she would sitOn her alcoholic mother's lap and pickLoose threads from her slip. Oh,Life is a sinker, Death a threaded worm,Her mother's wriggling finger, making her squirm.One must be as the fisherman Christ,One must weave a net of solitary days:The pressed dress waiting on the bed,The doorbell untouched as her nipples,The windows changing seasons like slides,The fish tank furiously reproducing,The neighbors' merciless undisciplined kids,The traffic of funerals underneath her fire escape,The hysterectomy underneath her pants,The bitten fingernails and the feet too pigeon-toed to dance.But the shark has bitten the net and bloodied her wrist.She runs the twisted bedsheet between her legsAnd can't understand why he not she is all

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The Eyes

By Frederick Feirstein

When they met her hands could cradle a fish.She could pluck his smallest hurtsLike barnacles from a baby's face.And when he betrayed her with a womanTwice her age and a […]

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