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Joyce Peseroff
Photo: Bradford Fuller
Joyce Peseroff has been described by Robert Pinsky
as “a clear-sighted, good-humored poet.” She is also a Distinguished Lecturer
and Director of the MFA program at
HARDNESS SCALE
By Joyce Peseroff
Diamonds
are forever so I gave you quartz
which is #7 on the hardness scale
and it's hard enough to get to know anybody these days
if only to scratch the surface
and quartz will scratch six other mineral surfaces:
it will scratch glass
it will scratch gold
it will even
scratch your eyes out one morning—you can't be
too careful.
Diamonds
are industrial so I bought
a ring of topaz
which is #8 on the hardness scale.
I
wear it on my right hand, the way it was
supposed to be, right? No tears and fewer regrets
for reasons smooth and clear as glass. Topaz will
scratch glass,
it will scratch your quartz,
and all your radio crystals. You'll have to be silent
the rest of your days
not to mention your nights. Not to mention
the night you ran away very drunk very
very drunk and you tried to cross the border
but couldn't make it across the lake.
Stirring
up geysers with the oars you drove the red canoe
in circles, tried to pole it but
your left hand didn't know
what the right hand was doing.
You
fell asleep
and let everyone know it when you woke up.
In
a gin-soaked morning (hair of the dog) you went
hunting for geese,
shot three lake trout in violation of the game laws,
told me to clean them and that
my eyes were bright as sapphires
which is #9 on the hardness scale.
A
sapphire will cut a pearl
it will cut stainess steel
it will cut vinyl and mylar and will probably
cut a record this fall
to be released on an obscure label known only to
aficionados.
I
will buy a copy.
I
may buy you a copy
depending on how your tastes have changed.
I
will buy copies for my friends
we'll get a new needle,
a diamond needle,
which is #10 on the hardness scale
and will cut anything.
It
will cut wood and mortar,
plaster and iron,
it will cut the sapphires in my eyes and I will bleed
blind as
are dreaming, blind as the time
you shot up the room with a new hunting rifle
blind drunk
as you were.
You
were #11 on the hardness scale
later that night
apologetic as
you worked your way up
slowly from the knees
and you worked your way down
from the open-throated blouse.
Diamonds
are forever so I give you softer things.
Copyright
© Joyce Peseroff
POET Shelley Savren’s book, The Common Fire, was published by Red Hen Press in 2004. She holds an M.F.A. from Antioch University
Los Angeles, and her work is widely published in literary magazines. Her awards include nine California
Arts Council Artist in Residence grants, two National Endowment for the
Arts regional grants, three artist fellowships from the City of
Iraqi Slum Vows to Fight
New York Times,
Grand palaces and soaring mosques
rise from central
and flatten a few miles south
to cheap concrete houses
where a tide of sewage laps filthy
streets.
Animal intestines pile up
and herds of sheep patrol the medians
eating garbage.
In the city square a billboard portrait
of Saddam Hussein smiles
above broken concrete where children
play in the slum that bears his name.
Homes lack electricity
and newborns die at the breasts
of hungry moms.
He blames it all on
Preemies could survive
if
Garbage could be hauled,
sewage flushed underground
if they could purchase trucks and
pipes.
Halima serves tabouleh
and tea
to reporters in a tenement room.
Her hands wear
the roughness of a seamed brown land.
We will use stones,
bricks, guns,
even our own hands to fight.
All the world is with us,
because we are in the right.
Captain
Albert Savransky
for my father
Above the mantel hang two medals,
Bronze Star and Croix de Guerre
and a photo of him at 25,
captain’s uniform precise
as a landmark, face as striking
as any guy I ever wanted to know.
He was the Little Giant,
Air Force Unit Service Commander
who organized shipments,
went into camps, delivered supplies.
That smell,
burning flesh. Later
the nightmares, bomb scares,
when he woke up under the bed.
I never knew that soldier.
The man I called Dad
commanded a different force.
Boyfriend patrol beat the background
out of every guy. Always the lecture,
always those fierce, blue eyes.
He never knew I spent a day in jail.
I never confessed to sex or drugs,
just returned after his fifth heart
attack,
a disappointment, and he told me
I needed to see the light.
Tonight I light his yahrzeit
candle
and tell him everything he missed –
my husband, his grandchild
who wants stories about her
grandpa.
As a toddler, I sat on his shoulders,
as a little girl, on his lap. He taught me
corny jokes and stupid army songs.
When he was young he fell asleep
on sidewalk curbs. A
rascal,
just like me, my grandma always said.
You have your father’s
curly hair.
I have his stubbornness, too.
Why I Spent a Day in Jail
I jumped on the cot and sang Happy Birthday until a guard
yelled to shut up. I was 20, so I jumped up and down
in a cell with a window, but I was too
short to see.
Agnew was speaking at graduation,
and we were flashing peace
signs, Disturbing a Lawful Assembly at
and Nixon flashed V signs – for
victory, not peace.
Guards took my Krishnamurti
book,The First and Last Freedom,
and my dangerous weapon, eyebrow
tweezers. I had
nothing to do but jump up and down and
sing.
Outside the stadium dozens
protested. Inside, cops arrested
my boyfriend and me. Agnew and Nixon flashed peace
signs, but didn’t go to jail for their crimes.
I was too short to see and had
nothing to do, so I shoved
a cigarette through a hole in the
cell. I told a woman
not to cry. I told her to jump up and down and sing.
Amanda Borozinski was born and raised in
What is your style?
Amanda
Man, what is your style?
Your style is your point of view.
Ok, so what’s your point of view?
Man, it’s your style.
It’s the beginning, the start, who
it is, who is talking, who you aren’t. It’s the thing
you should, could, would, want, can’t – are trying to say. It’s the height, the
rhythm, the words. It’s mine, yours, I, ours, she, he, we.
It’s the pronoun you use. It’s the tree I see out my back window on Birch Dive.
It’s the city, Rindge. It’s the state,
It’s like watching
Man, you gotta
find it. Cause it’s the whole shebang, the nitty-gritty, the whole enchilada,
the low-down-dirty, good, bad, ugly, vanilla-chocolate,
roll-it-across-your-tongue-spit-it-on-the-floor truth. It’s the blue jean baby,
the jazz man crazy, the cat without a tail on the hot tin roof.
You wana
get style?
Then you gotta
squeeze through the looking glass, run over the yellow brick road, straight to
Calgary, across Jordan, past 119, make a left hand turn on Southwood
Bound Road, throw open the doors of Bellevue, and with a hop-skip-and-a-jump
land on the big red X.
But, that ain’t
the end.
No man, that ain’t
no where near the end. Cause now you gotta go
backwards, reverse, rewind, rehearse, reply, retake, redo. Fly straight up into
the air off the big red X, through the doors, jump-and-skip-hop back to Southwood Bound, turn right past 119, cross
It’s there man.
Right there’s where you got it.
Where you got your style.
The
Chickasaw
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