From: ggam77@net-kooks.org   
      
   On Wed, 02 Mar 2005 06:20:40 GMT, Karla  wrote:   
      
   >Caring for Others   
   >   
   >Vestibule smelling of old potpourri,   
   >coat hooks above a mash of rubber,   
   >and in one corner, a tumbled umbrella.   
   >Flocked wallpaper, deep blue,   
   >electric candle sconces along the walls,   
   >shadow couch and shadow pillows.  The nameless   
   >   
   >little boy coughed every time I babysat,   
   >unwiped snot globs ready to drip,   
   >pale slits magnified behind wires   
   >as if to say 'you can't make me'.  Which,   
   >of course, I did when bedtime came.   
   >   
   >Finding his sister unchanged,   
   >facing away, screamed, three short shouts,   
   >as I pulled off corduroys, sweater, knee highs.   
   >And one long yelp when I smashed   
   >her gold curls into the daisy nightgown.   
   >   
   >I didn't think about that when their father pulled   
   >to the side of the road, after 2 a.m., retched,   
   >resumed the zigzag drive. I didn't think about   
   >the money, the "thank you, see you again.' In the morning,   
   >our parents exchanged phone calls.  I thought it would end.   
   >   
   >But the next time, and two more times after that, I slept   
   >overnight, playing sentry.  Low in the den, lightly breathing,   
   >the sour smell of a white wash closed in.   
   >I didn't think about why he'd left a row of romances,   
   >   
   >covers, cousins of palpable bosoms, harsh gasping men   
   >tonguing an ear, gouging a waist.  Dirty books, I thumbed them,   
   >chapter after chapter ending in mysteries: "I felt him move."   
   >Swallow stuck in my throat, each time I turned a page,   
   >belonged to this house, like the bathroom upstairs, tinkling,   
   >unstoppered, slipping.  Or a car door opening.  Vomit.   
   >   
   >After I pulled her right arm, then left, through each sleeve,   
   >ponied her yellow hair and pulled it free, I took a comb   
   >to an inch of ends just above her waist. Combed to her wails.   
   >Combed the dry crackle, doll hair dead.  Combed the waste   
   >of length, brambled and twisting.  A gold labyrinth, the teeth   
   >pursuing the beast, moan after moan.  I combed her hair free   
   >and tucked her in, thinking, I'd done a good job.   
   >   
   >Karla   
      
   I'd focus my revision efforts on transfoming your sentence attempts   
   into sentences if I were you.   
      
   The last strophe was the only one that really did anything for me.   
      
   You could easily ditch the first two strophes without losing much.   
      
   I'd focus on the kids and the situation more than the narrative I if I   
   were you.   
      
   Good luck with it.   
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)