Issue 16
Winter 2004
Janice Roper
Janice Roper lives in Annapolis, Maryland. To pay the bills, she is a Client Executive for USi, an Internet applications service provider. She is a mother to three living daughters ages 10, 6 and 4 and a son who would have been 8 years old this year. She has a Bachelor's Degree in English/Psychology from Salisbury University (Maryland) w ith a concentration in creative writing. She has been published in "Pegasis" Magazine and wrote a children's book: Dancing on the Moon to comfort grieving children (all profits go to SIDS research and SIDS family support services) .
The Bruises of Love
The bruises of love are pieces of heart
flowing up to the surface
and crying out.The edge in your voice is a sine wave out of sync
with the power grid of your brain
arcing like a whip.And I am your Barbie Doll only
not as slim and
not as clear skinned and
not as easily manipulated and
I don't stay on the shelf when
you put me back there.The bruises of love hide under my clothes
and only show through my eyes
and sap the blood of desire so we
stand limp under the shower, taking turns
louf-ing each other's back
each asking politely
for a turn to rinse.
The water begins to cool.The bruises of love rise
with the slap of an insult like
“you're no fun anymore” and
“I wish I'd never married you.”Pretty soon I am spotted
like a cheetah
getting ready to pounce or maybe
outrun you.
King-Sized Bed
I left my husband and bought a king-sized bed
for $35 from a man
in disarray. He was
getting ready to move too,
his items of value scattered
amid pointless debris and pollution.
He spontaneously sold me
a scarred bookshelf too--
for a song.The bed has no headboard and stains
from him or his wife balloon
in rusty brown and grotesque
yellowish circles. I wrap this irritant
in a pad and a mattress protector, both
brand new, pure white and its
all I can afford. Its
OK.I like to sleep naked except
with you. Then
I wrap a silky layer for you
to undo.
But it seems there is a depression
on my side and I can't help
rolling into it.
Each morning you pull me out
with kisses like puffs on a tiny
spark that balloon into the licking
of flames.
Only then can I rise
like a sail on the ocean
arching and singing
pure white upon blue
wetness upon the squishy bottom
that is smothered but tickled
and s wirled by the motion
above.A rock rolls over
laughing and unleashing
the pollution so
I can almost pretend
we are washing it clean
and its coming
out
like dirty sediment and stains
kicked up
in a Tide commercial and
rinsed away.There is a pearl in all this commotion.
I am chasing it in place.And then I am awake
paused with pounding skin
silky askew and silvery goo
and only you
can put that smile on me: The one
with my eyes and lips
closed and my right cheek
settling back down into your chest.This king-size bed
sighs and curves upward
like God's weathered hand
cupping the elusive
pearl.