OPENED APERTURE
by Marisa Beahm Klein
Opened Aperture By Marisa Beahm Klein A Matter Media LLC production Copyright Š 2009 by Marisa Beahm All rights reserved. ISBN 978-0-557-12722-1
Cover photo by Michael Klein Special thank you to the following journals, magazines and websites in which a selection of these poems have appeared: Illiterate Magazine, IMPROV: An Anthology of Colorado Poets, Subscribe Magazine, The Internet Poets’ Cooperative, The University of Colorado Honors Journal and The Walkabout Journal.
For Michael, my catalyst for adventure
Contents One-Way Ticket High Heels … 3 Bells … 4 GoodBYE Protocol … 5 Scavengers … 7 Lone Star Slumber … 8 Prayer Candles … 10 Ophelia Resurrected … 11 Private Transportation … 12 Hostel Celica … 14 Croatian Sensation … 15 Indelible … 16 100-Euro Breasts … 17
Opened Aperture
Casseroles, Carnations … 23 Are Forever … 2 Sienna … 25 Easily Forgotten … 26 Synonym … 27 Flirting Philosophy … 29 Lemonade … 31 Rise … 33 Fruition … 35
ONE-WAY TICKET
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High Heels
Each stiletto step excavates cigarette stubs lodged in ant tunnel crevices of Budapest streets Their high heels chisel into cobblestones with the hollow gasp of hooves on bridges these are Women who stamp head up in low lighting, never stumbling, they drop ash for the next to stir up making unabashed eye contact through designer lenses, they swing open-palmed hands air floating through un-Saturned fingers breeze tickling like pencils rounding elementary fingertips when we traced our bodies and were asked what we wanted to be when we grew up I wanted to be them. Those striding at a distance, while I don creep-up-quiet flats self-conscious hands cemented to my sides Women who round Metro corners without trigger fingers on mace or gripping handbags to ribs, accented by perfume, because they like their scent. Women who walk on Achilles heels.
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Bells
Catholic churches bleed unto apartment buildings, dripping Holy water onto tenement blocks 5:45 bells declare the Priest processional Clad in a black button-down robe with a white-collar ID badge, He leads the exodus from mass, trailed by an elderly widow flock. They became nuns too late. Abandoned by carnal loves sanctified before the church, they follow the hallowed lead of the only man standing. Father’s anointed head, telephone pole in the blizzard of disciples’ hair. Navy smocks shelter worldly bodies curved backs bearing rosary crosses they clutch the elbows of friends balancing on swollen ankles, thick-sandaled feet.
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goodBYE protocol Peddlepressed to 71 milesperhour left turn signal clicks, a warming record player the melody moves me into left lane I accelerate your departure. Your fingers circle my thigh, my fingertips curl the wheel. Engine stays on while Hazard(strobe)lights rave, I exit the car. the protocol: Boarding pass and ID. “How long until I see you next?” Empty pockets. “As soon as possible.” Swallow liquids. “Have a good flight.” Remove laptop. “I love you.” Take off shoes and belt. “Call me after security.” 5
Collect all belongings. We become unattended baggage confiscated by distance.
I want to delay your departure slam brakes for redeye nights. hard to convince you to stay as I switch lanes, milesperhour
speedup to 75
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Scavengers
Litter to Irish streets: grocery store bouquets to Memorial Day cemeteries. Half an hour after the pubs clear, after panini (impulse buy) wrappers are tossed into damp gutters, before morning mist glues contemporary trash to ancient cobblestone, workers plow through rutted streets conducting trash with wheelbarrow orchestras.
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Lone Star Slumber
Sheets never stuck to the slick velvet bed and ants never stayed off, each morning my legs harbored new bites patternless constellations and no intimation of their source. The insomniac insects scaled five stories, 4.5 Hungarian abacus floors, seeped in dusty bookshelves stacked with Magyar words we Americans ignored. We never asked István how old the bed was or how it was tilted up the narrow flights or contracted into the creeky elevator, with close quarters that made us absorb the neighbors’ cigarette apparitions. It must have been angled and shoved by willing comrades when working was not optional. Now the unwilling movers migrated around the corner to Batthyány tér, surviving off Spar surplus and 100 forint shooters. Once we picked out Stalin's profile in the bed’s wispy pattern, conjuring more images than cirrus afternoons with backs on grass, but the Lone Star flag that flew above demagnetized the iron curtain images, sprawling its red white and blue in our bedroom like Fourth of July finales. 8
My dreams became freckled with the Alamo and tollways, shrouded by grassy knolls. In the third week of July I slept alone, Queen’s bed - a hot water bottle that never chilled. He slept in the coveted Costco lawn chair on our porch like a Victorian aristocrat waking to tipsy 14-year-olds belting the Dallas theme as they stumbled down steaming streets. Even now in my Centennial-state slumber, my waking fingers extend, expecting to feel the supple headboard that cradled expatriate nights, grazing the sentient flag halo and the Texan who kept home beside me.
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Prayer Candles
An inaugural hand to Lincoln’s Bible, my flattened palm hovers two inches above the flames flesh thaws with ignited devotion smoking prayers tattoo promise rings on fingers I clasp singed palms into a pious arch kneel upon the cool stone floor light my candle with the celestial flicker of yours
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Ophelia Resurrected
Her shameless laugh echoes off sanitized bathroom tile during a steamy Super 8 midnight soak. She’s the kind of girl who sneaks hotel pillows into the bathtub says they were flattened already, the dampness won’t matter. Lily pad pillow floats her curls rest, blossoms on the spongy surface. She will never say restroom, it’s always bathroom or toilet. No use for euphemisms. Pressed a wilting lily on page 286 of the hotel Bible a springtime resurrection for the skeptics.
She floats like dew covered peach skin naked in gossamer waves.
11
Private Transportation
Nervous people ride the bus. tap dance feet, press personal accelerators. Chronologically fixated people, eyes to wrist, wrist to timetable, timetable to road and still no bus. Upon arrival, we cram,push,shove into rubber-tinged air of
anonymity,
where uncollected coke cans roll bouncing off wind chime chairs. We touch as the bus breaks, unsuspecting fingers overlap instantly repel back to 12
unfurled newspapers, books as conversation shields headphone auditoriums. Communal passengers, untouched. silent
traveling somewhere, gaining nothing surroundedSurroundedsurrounded Alone.
13
Hostel Celica "I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free." - Michelangelo
Xylophone cell doors clanked all night, openclosedopen directed by whims of key holders, bouncing between gallery-walk lodging. Cramped rooms held captive only artistic visions, cellblock group exhibition layering Hostel Celica’s history under fresh paint light as hope blithe as free. They carved the angel out of the steel. Two decades before, the locked doors of political hostages clicked in unison echoing the cadence of stomping soldiers Their tick marks and tears, transformed to cumulus clouds, picture frames and lofted beds. A sanctuary, where all nationalities clamor over coffee each morning.
14
Croatian Sensation
On loan from a Led Zeppelin clerk with trampoline curls, our serpentine scooter ascends seaside hills, a tipsy kite around twists My fingers clutch his cliffedge stomach, arms taunt activated seatbelts turbulence marries our ladybug, fly helmets, a wooden mallet tap Postcard blues, algae greens slowly emerge from my whiteknuckle haze loosened fingers click shutters, brush olive branches, inhale saltlick air
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Indelible Whether the vineyards are stooping to embrace the Mediterranean, or quenched peaks are bowing to verdant hills. No matter what language rolls from my lips, or which coins clink in your pockets, we are lured in the same direction. With harmonious sirens, we will traverse married streets until they are tattooed with synched footsteps and we forget when they ever felt foreign. Together we are home, intertwined tales penned in indelible ink.
16
100-Euro Breasts
Streamlining through stained glass, the spotlight sun shines on my Americana soul filling it with foreign light enveloped by blessed windows I stand solitary in the center of a jewel-crested crown When the cloud’s aperture opens, there is no one to take my picture so with eyes closed, I let the sun expose the negatives of my eyelids Instead of clicking a camera my fingers check my pulse, memorize movements of heartbeats in this seclusion conversation. Traveling from church to museum to marvel with millions at masterpieces, but as I’m surrounded by sullen scripture paintings, I see joy watercolors never encapsulate How Adam and Eve embraced nakedly as the world unfolded, back when clothes were censorship and flesh was art. Envisioning a beaming Mary as she held her miracle son, unlike the demure Louvre lamentations. But for now, I’m just another woman traveling alone with selective smiles, avoiding strangers’ invitation eyes. 17
Slyly store money in my bra, 50 Euros clutched in each cup, hoping unclasping less common than purse snatchings, but one cannot tell in this amorous city. With every step on Parisian paths, I reveal the power of having no hand to hold embracing the beauty, of 100-Euro breasts.
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OPENED APERTURE
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Casseroles, Carnations
my aunt knelt with creak of knee petted hair too thin for brushing and said she was in heaven he started down at Velcro shoes fingered his canary turtleneck a priest; finger between neck and collar asked if we could go there as if heaven were a hospital’s visiting hours day before expected tears were shed eating another condolence casserole automaton forks moved comfortless food to silent Midwest mouths fragrant house, a grocery store flower cooler. he asks “are we going to see Grandma?” he didn’t recognize the smell: casseroles, carnations
23
Are Forever
Privately, I peek at my cuppedhand chandelier princess cutting into the creases of my palm generational dewdrop, knuckles shroud my diamond vow, from unsentimental strangers who would carve their initials into my mine that took pressured eons to cultivate this promise.
24
Sienna
age spots freckled Grandma’s hands, polluted snow on blanched pavement as she gently rubbed suntan lotion on my swimsuit back where straps sheathed crystal rivers from Sienna desert skin. Her skin, edges of burnt sugar cookies, crumbling fall leaves.
Years later, leaning against Sienna bricks of her vacant home, finger tips on winter walls: cool hands on summer backs.
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Easily Forgotten Sullen shoes. Size of castaway bricks, he scuffled like a child in an electricity battle languidly skating on gelid carpet. The Reeboks signature faded scuffled by idle miles k worn to x Murky gray fabric, a polluted city, of eroding edifices overshadowing cracked cement sidewalks. They should sleep in a closet, packrat’s stale haven hidden under water-stained Emerson novels, crinkled family portraits. No chance of loose ends with tiresome Velcro clutching speckled carpet fuzz, a Pollock canvas.
26
Synonym
They crisscross body parts as they unravel the Times crossword puzzle debating synonyms for creed as if their relationship rested on finding six perfect letters fighting over a worn pencil tip, control of the table, they continue to curl closer on the dime-store sofa, splotched by coffee tattoos, shoe bottom scuffs they come to a consensus of synonyms as he combs fingers through her morning hair. I crave that coffee shop love where he and I could stroll in as regulars drinks on the counter side-by-side a bride and groom atop a wedding cake. Choose a corner couch , savor the cadence of cappuccinos linger over torrid coffee mugs until steam coats his unshaved cheeks and espresso lips Hold infinite conversations without technology about why voices of smokers are so sultry or why are poetry books so expensive and poets so poor. Or sit silently with the warmth of cup in hand mirroring the heat of his back as I recline onto him. Stare at the walls, analyze abstraction admire the art we will never buy 27
and interpret meaning within each other’s untagged galleries. Pick at guitar strings read books over each others’ shoulders, testing your patience as I ask for plot recaps. We could evolve into that coffee family, escaping our house with wandering barefoot toddlers take breaks from novels to slide Cheerios to our children smile at younger couples still engaging in coffee shop courting. But now, I write alone observing crossword couples, reliving the day I found my synonym, our perfectly paired lexicon left no blanks left unfulfilled: Dreaming of the day we reconnect at the counter.
28
Flirting Philosophy
HyperhousewaresSteven bellows in the arts and crafts section of Walmart, standing amid paint rainbows, we are the pots of gold at the aisle’s end. He chats away, arms jutting around, a steward pointing out emergency exits Distractedly, I paint air across my palm, with a medium-sized paintbrush sweeping engrained lifeline oak as I try to pay attention and not stare at his open fly, a screaming mouth. I only asked for the paint, and revealed my name with a post-shift ID He gives me philosophy Did you know Walmart just hired me yesterday? Got my lobotomy and now I’m ready to go. 29
He doesn’t see the darkest blue shade, sprints away to find it, an eccentric werewolf on a ravenous quest for a perfect tint of moonlight. He returns with the shadowy pigment, and in his paws, another gift his poetic resume, stapled together like an elementary school book, encircled into a cone, banana wide at one end. he taps it against my forehead, knighting me with his words: budding writer, I sniff the petals of his pages: Full of found poems, jittery ransom letters. I unwind the curved pages and glance at his mono-syllabic proudest poem: fruit. Written and researched 1991-January 25, 2004. Steven holds out his hand, pleased to meet a college idealist: Life is like the lottery and you take your chances. I will wonder every day, is this the day you come back to housewares to see me?
30
Lemonade
faded yellow pitcher fall dandelion, brimming with watered-down lemonade her badland knuckles clenched the handle, as she prepared to pour me a Dixie cup full an overgrown child manning a roadside stand. Not prepared to receive, only give Catholic Christmas presents wrapped in paper more intact than her trailer’s dying tree walls I shook my head in a closed-mouth smile, waved away the offering, fingers grazing her hand, a timid palm reader. In arrogance, I thought I was taking from nothing my companions shifted on mismatched chairs, wondering who would accept the bread and wine all said “no thank you� praising her generous hospitality, without tasting it. Later, we knew 31
it was not the instant lemonade: a stingy government-gift but communion from a creedless cup. Tongue aches for tart forgiveness.
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Rise He dipped my head in holy water before I knew this hallowed waterfall was to wash away a cycle of sins past and present, passed on in procreation and fed through umbilical cords God’s holy juice was eternally glazed on my forehead slowly basting towards salvation, I wiped away the dampness and tried to grasp God but only found women weeping. Holy Spirit manifested in teardrops, and to fear God was to be near God. Woke up with red shoes removed in a Wizard of Oz salvation blind to forgiving eyes behind the confessional I wanted to Dorothy-open the screen and unmask these men because when the curtain ripped between man and God, a wall rose between God and woman. Asked my mom after Catechism where all the women have gone Mary’s gospel merely a ghost expelled by King James’s exorcism, same disappearing act as the mother in the Holy Trinity. My prayers became want-ads: Single worldly female seeks divine mother preferably non-smoking and brimstone, must love dogs and all humanity.
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Started a holy war to bring the mother back to her land. As the worst crime Christians ever committed was sin of omission – preaching virginity as divinity, abstinence over action, calling us unclean, when our own womb was the Holy Grail that nourished the sacred male. Crave a Lenten intervention, altered altars where women’s celestial testimony inspires prayers to pour out pores with shattered stained-glass ceilings we will all rise Halos above this ala carte Christianity.
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Fruition
I was the apple the pear the peach my cornucopia curves spilled onto the floor Aphrodite with arms attached investigated by watercolor coroners counted breaths with fingers on ebbing lungs until the last grain of sand dropped I drew my curtains, draped cloth over my relief I was the pomegranate the cherry the seeds
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