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t 

Michael Downey 

Crutches for Kevin 

For days he wouldn't willingly touch them, 
Pointed reminders of the accident. 
He could be coaxed across the room 
(Open hands close behind) 
Wobbling for a phone call, or a cookie. 
Muscles on his good leg knotted, 
Shoulders wearily pushing the earth down ; 
Each 1day the small trapezist swung farther 
Before crying, stopping. 
He really preferred to scoot, 
Dragging the heavy cast over carpet trails. 
Always was faltering of nonacceptance, -
Until on the ground they became 
Parking garages for matchbox cars, 
Then they were lifted like guns 
At his troubles, whirling only 
Through his play to become his. 

Beverly G. DeMario 

In the Cornfield 

The pail is caught between the barn door 
and blue grass, 
it empties. 
A scarf is pulled tight against her head. 
I imagine her hair as smooth as skin. 
She folds her hands seems to lean upon the air 
catching yellow across the face . 

All the house lights have been pulled downward 
as a plow over rich earth. 
Charlene rocks back humming words 
evenly spaced like teeth biting silence. 
The room appears albino 
oval shadows swirl, flatten in her eyes. 

In the field the horses trot quickly 
between the rows of corn. 
I turn once to gather the small sound 
of the heat rushing through them. 

Beverly G. DeMario 

Reflection on a Puddle 

In the listening, 
I take twice the trees and stones, 
and the wind that turns around with October. 
The sweet singers of rain faraway, 
of geese rolling, 
all blooming beneath the full cloud. 

The rocks rise blue, 
weave laced foam 
in and out. 

I walk and turn my face to the wind 
dry leaves swirl, 
wood, scrubbed as hands clench and lies on the black. 

It is a hollow puddle carved wet. 
Birds cross bone to light. 
I enter, one shadow in the thick, 
a still drop buoys with fern 
and years of stone in the webbed wall 
of this weather. 

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