“Mars and Venus” by Kathleen Diane Nolan

Kathleen Diane Nolan


so one night I was walking up Madison after the rain and this homeless man was sitting on the sidewalk sobbing so I got him soup and a sandwich and that didn’t seem like enough so I got a brownie too and when I told the cashier it’s for the guy outside she gave me a cup of coffee light and sweet  I brought the food and the coffee to the guy and he said don’t think I’m going to thank you and I said I don’t care if you thank me and he said, bullshit, you do yes you do  truth  he asked if I was from Mars or Venus because I looked intergalactic baby and what do you do up there all day anyway he wanted to know and no way was I saying social work so I said I was a poet and he said he was a poet too  he told me to sit and I did even though the pavement was wet and everything smelled like shit and sour milk  then we watched the skyline crossing the stars for a long time and he said Venus this is not how things are supposed to be and I said yes I know and he said no you don’t you do not  then he told me to remember three things always  we are all transparent with no skin or bones  diamonds come from ashes and hair of the dead  hope is the thing with claws not feathers  he told me to put all of this in a poem and not to walk near Madison and 38th Street ever again  this is my corner he said

from Rattle #44, Summer 2014

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Kathleen Diane Nolan: “I’ve always been a close observer of small corners and a keeper of notebooks. I live in New York City where I read and write poetry for truth and beauty, for discovery and communion, to quiet down and enter the here and now. In my purse, I carry pencils, a sharpener and two volumes of poetry. And a notebook.”

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