Marcia LeBeau

THE MAKING OF 1:43 PM

Anna had Down Syndrome and was best friends with my sister
who also, not surprisingly, has Down Syndrome, too that’s the
PC way to refer to it these days.

And yes, Anna died 3 days after taking a Caribbean cruise with her mother
my sister and my mother. Four ladies on the water having the time of their
lives until Anna had a stroke on the boat and no one knew what was happening,
certainly not the jackass cruise ship doctor.

You’re wonder how old? At 26, she proclaimed she was on a diet while devouring
bags of chips. Her blood clots got bigger a drunk driver blinded
her in one eye she was the glue that held and stickied
her family. Note:

Homeward bound from the boat, airport security demanded Anna get out of her
wheelchair for frisking and wanding while her head uncontrollably rolled.

Because you asked, my neighbor is just my neighbor, a motivated guy who
has nothing in common with Anna except he’s a good person. Oh,
Jason, sweet Jason, Anna’s boyfriend for years, doesn’t have
Down Syndrome, but is slow and doesn’t understand the concept of death. He thought
her wake was a party for him because everyone slapped his back
and asked Jason, how are you doing? More

footnotes: My mom actually does talk like the italics
One Liberty Plaza in downtown Manhattan was uninhabitable after
9/11 and has nothing to do with Anna except another wacko association
I made when faced with a death at 1:43 on a Tuesday afternoon.

—from Rattle #26, Winter 2006
Rattle Poetry Prize Honorable Mention

Marcia LeBeau

1:43 PM

Anna died this afternoon
Is she unicycling
down Mt. Sunapee
weeping uncontrollably
small hands stroking
my hair, cool air
spinning the smell of
death metallic in my
mouth? They weren’t receptive to our daughters,
Marcia. The workers on Royal Caribbean
Cruise Lines were not receptive to our
daughters. My neighbor’s
smooth mahogany head shiny
with motivation and Anna
laughing she is beating my heart my
mother’s silence heavy and light
lying down tired and aching on top
of the reception counter at One
Liberty Plaza. Call security, the ballet
is too graceful. Call security, my father’s
happiness fell
into a leaf pile many years ago and Anna
called him Meatball, and Jason
sweet Jason, she is not
getting better in one
massive stroke so you
can go to the movies, we must
all get up and line dance right
out of this world.

—from Rattle #26, Winter 2006
Rattle Poetry Prize Honorable Mention