January 20, 2016

Doris Ferleger

SOMETIMES

Sometimes a man needs to create
loss so he can grieve the losses he has
not yet grieved, or has only half understood
or has not understood at all.

The way her note made it seem
like she had never slept in the curve
of his hip. The way he left the other
because the sea kept moving away from him
and he couldn’t find a way to reach her.

Sometimes a man wants to know
the shape of a thing before it is formed.
This man wants to know why
he is holding back from this new woman.

He senses his own body, bent,
and at first believes it is her body bent
on grieving, but it is simply
the soul’s emptiness, the necessary grief
of being human, mortal, foolish and wise.

Sometimes a man does not choose to walk
forward. Instead he stands still and speaks
softly so the others must move close to him
in order to feel met. This is all he wants.

Sometimes the man backs away
though most steadied by moving forward
like a biker riding up the Continental Divide
where the sky is an endless azure
and a lone bird flies over the Rio Grande.

Sometimes a man needs to grieve inside
a woman, let his body tumble toward her,
let the losses he never even knew he had
fall from inside his pockets.

And when the light comes, sometimes a man
needs to say he is unsure, But do come again, do.
And she may, but after lovemaking she will sleep
in the other room until all the women he grieves leave
her space under his white flannel sheets.

from Rattle #50, Winter 2015

__________

Doris Ferleger: “Pshesh-che-radl-wa, Polish word for sheet, was the first thing I loved to play with in my mouth. Daughter of Polish-Jewish Holocaust survivor immigrants, I grew up in a household where three languages were spoken, sometimes within the same sentence. I loved the sounds of Polish words most, and I loved my father’s stories, full of resonant details that made the Old Country and his lost loved ones come alive. Since childhood, writing poetry has given me a place to explore and express the vibrant particulars of beauty and brokenness, love and loss, and the complexities of human relationships.” (web)

Rattle Logo

June 22, 2013

Doris Ferleger

LOOKISTS

My father called Shirley Drip Dry, though not
to her face, because her hands perpetually appeared
to be hanging from a clothes line. Even when
she raised her arms, her hands hung, peely
and pale. My brother was a good sport about it.
Shirley was his first girlfriend followed by Emmy
whom our father called ugly once, as in, Hey there, ugly,
though we all knew she was beautiful or at least she fitm
our family’s version of beauty. Shining onyx hair,
olive skin, Semite with a surprising, sweet,
short nose. But Emmy knew already at fifteen,
how to chasten: there is always truth
in every jest, so be careful
. Our father,
I could see, felt ashamed. It was only his love
of America that made him say it,
his hope of sounding cool instead of Old Country
where he didn’t dare raise his eyes
from the pebbles on the ground,
from the dirt streets, if a girl was near.

My aunt Susie called both my parents lookists
because—without knowing anything about the fractal
geometry that makes us see beauty in a moon
shaped face or high cheek bones, those supreme
lookout points above the ultimate
fourteen-tooth smile—without knowing
anything about the golden ratio of beauty
that makes us praise faces with the most
symmetry, eyes level and preferably
large, brows of equal thickness—without knowing
Rossetti’s Helen of Troy or the unblemished
marble of David, they both loved to look at
beautiful people more than the not so much.

I was fifteen to Dahlia’s seventeen when she
introduced us to boys as the pretty one and
the smart one
—she being the pretty one, and I
believed for years that the slot was not shareable.
Only one pretty allowed per two best friends.
It never occurred to me that she might have
coveted my smart slot as much as I coveted
her pretty one. Now I am sixty and signed on
to eHarmony that asks for ten traits, choose
from a list of twenty-five
, that I could not live without.
And if I try to check off even one more,
the computer goes wonk and won’t let me do it.
So pleasant to my eye is pitted against doesn’t lie,
and you know what I choose. What this says about me:

that I stood before Van Gogh’s blue and green
impasto wheat fields and wept, wishing I could have
held him, smoothed his hair that he painted
in his self portraits to look like gold and
ruddy wheat fields, could have put my hand
out the window to feel the rain that fell
in black streaks like mascara on the cheeks
of a woman weeping, could have touched
the paint on his canvas while it was still wet.

from Rattle #38, Winter 2012

[download audio]

Rattle Logo