Karen Havnaer ----- four poems

FOUR POEMS BY KAREN HAVNAER

STREET OF THE DEVIL WINS

Power glimmers on the skyline

from the windows of the First Bank Building

where goodness is a carefully

assembled portfolio

where the fully invested

are sorely offended

by a woman whispering

to a child she sees

in the palm of her hand.

Her hair is alive with lice!

Love lurches down the street toward her

with a broken tooth grin

his eyes on her purse.

This is the street of it hasn’t worked out.

This is the street of the devil wins.

He has a bad record, record, record.

He steals drugs while working

as a hospital orderly, illegally sells

government cheese. His father is crazy,

mother unknown. He admits nothing.

Charity blushes brighter than a baboon’s ass.

This is the street of the devil wins.

He claims remorse, says he’ll

pay back everything. The lie wobbles

like a baby, bounces like a bad check.

His spirit spoils like fruit rotting

in the crates of Central American Cities.

He claims his brain was stolen

and his watch. He slumps in doorways.

He sizzles like cold meat on a hot griddle.

He isn’t ready for high tech.

Their eyes smashed like glittering green glass

Dreams slither through the streets

vicious as snakes that poison

our sense of what it is to be human.

This is the world bowed down to

the drunks curve into it

lie like children chilly in the womb

their teeth loose against the dark.

Change, stuck in its own fear,

imprisoned in a tale of woe,

turns its victims round and round:

It’s papa coming through the door

his sleeves rolled up against his arms

his love careless as a slap.

This is the street of it hasn’t worked out.

This is the street of the devil wins.

THE VIET NAM VET CONSIDERS DARWIN

I’m a free man and so is my wife.

Is she smart? Of course, not.

Whoever heard of a smart woman?

And I mean that respectfully.

And my mother—England or not

am I an immigrant?

No, nor a monkey either.

I’m not a monkey

and I don’t care what they say.

Do I look like a monkey?

Is this a tail?

They ask you to believe

a lot of craziness

but I’m not nuts

or a monkey either

like marriage was made in heaven

but a monkey? Never.

Can you see the difference?

Why not a dog?

Who knows what happened back then?

They couldn’t even write!

Those smart-asses with their eyes

can say what they say;

Democracy will not be mocked

whether they divorce of marry or not.

You think I’m impotent?

I’m not. I’m shell shocked

and I’ll show you a divorce

or any other thing

hanging in a tree or not.

I don’t even like coconuts

and never did—ever.

FIVE HEARTS

(“…a little wretched, despicable creature; a worm a mere nothing,

       and less than nothing…” Jonathan Edwards 1703-1758)

1.

Here he is, a little farmer

no longer than a finger

a hairless curl

rosy as an angel’s blush

a showgirl’s wriggle.

Without eyes, ears, nose

he clearly knows I’m here.

He pulls back, draws forward

on bristles invisible as white eyelashes

then shrivels as if he thinks

I’ll mock his labors

make fun of his looks.

2.

“Dainty fellow,” I protest,

“little nibbler, earth mover

aerator, leaf and litter eater

plant feeder, disposer of all that’s left,

I’m not some callow fellow

here to dangle you before crossed eyes,

a gap-toothed, sarcastic grin

or stuff you where I keep my pocket knife

then forgetting sit on you at dinner.”

3.

A hungry crow,

who’s been pecking

at the street,

flaps in to squawk

and scold as if annoyed

by our alliance.

I lift my trowel

And my five-hearted friend* and I

go back to work.

*The earth worm has no lungs, breathes directly into

  his bloodstream and has five hearts.

VASHON DOCK

A bee saws among berry bushes

brambling thick and blossoming down

torn stairs, where sea leaves cling

to sand and stone.

Ducks rest upon their breasts,

rising, they fall upon their watery backs,

one duck turns to shake the water

from his head.

Clouds tow their shadows through

water that glimmers in their wake.

Wobbling between splintery poles,

the ferry clanks into place.