POETRY BY NICOLE BLACKMAN

Child

and the image of her unknown face
will shove back all the others
and make you drop your paring knife

someone will notice then
and ask if you're all right
you'll flash a quick smile
and carry on

at work
you'll stare
into random corners
absorbed
and you'll gaze too long
at baby name books
on your lunch hour

when a new mother walks by
with her baby
you'll clasp your hands
les you snatch it and run home
begging forgiveness from a wailing child
that is not yours


* * *


Lost

I've lost my notebook.
I've lost my poem.

It was a great one.
It was eleven pages long.

It was about my father saying he couldn't hear me.
It was about the X I cut into the back of my hand.

It was about seeing yet another friend on heroin.
It was about that little boy kicking a bird to death.

It was about the four leaf clover someone sent me.
It was about the time I could not stop sleeping.

It was about mailing anonymous hate letters.
It was about finding bruises all over my legs.

It was about the bartender who wouldn't let me pay.
It was about trying to find the cool spot on the pillow.

It was about the lipstick I stole from a girl's medicine cabinet.
It was about seeing my favorite poet shake when she gave a reading.

It was about the tape I ripped out of someone's answering machine.
It was about the friend who banged on my door and I did not let her in.

It was about watching MTV after school and wondering if I'd look like that when I grew up.
It was about my mother lying on the kitchen floor and the dog licking her face.

It was about what happened when I forgot how much milk my boyfriend liked in his coffee.
It was about the time I read someone's diary and ripped out the pages about me.

It was about going to the bus station and not knowing where I was going.
It was about coming in late for a movie and kissing through the credits.

It was about the car I could not drive.
It was about my party when no one came.

It was about the last time you touched me.
It was about the way you walked away.

It was the best thing I'd ever written.
It was everything I wanted to say.

I've lost my notebook.
I've lost my poem.


* * *


Kim

Kim's getting off the heroin
and she shows me her cold ivory arms in a diner later
as if it's evidence to an uncaring judge.

She peels her nails down in front of me,
layer by layer, like a paper onion.

She's started smoking again,
has slept with her landlord,
claims she wants to leave New York.

What makes her think she can start over again anywhere in this world
and not have it be exactly the same?

She pours salt into her coffee by acciden
-- drinks it anyway.

She tells the cashier to keep the change
because she likes to travel light.

Later she'll scream to me from the corner because she has no quarters
to make a phone call.

When we say goodbye, I can see her,
moving so slowly through air
like a feather that cannot fight on its way down.


* * *


In the Movie Now

There is no glory in trying to make love to men
who only know how to fuck-
man after man after man after man
raised on porn.

Out all day while he's been watching $2 videos
now piled by the VCR,
out all day at work at class at the gym
while he's making plans
out all day returning with bags of bread
and tomatoes and bluefish for what you think
will be dinner.

Dinner is you
and you are nothing like
the dead eyed blond women
he's been watching.

You're in the movie now.

He is nothing like you remember.
No time for a condom, take a pill
or put in a diaphragm.
Those girls never get pregnant anyway
What are you trying to do?

Clothes cannot come off fast enough
get them off get them off
shoes are always left on
you don't know why.
You're in the movie now.

You used to scrape your nails
against the wall leaving
streaks of scars of where
you wanted to stay
and where he took you.

Now you just go
it'll be over
in ten minutes.
it'll be over
in ten minutes
twenty at most.

A black envelope closes with you inside.
You're in the movie now.

He winds your hair around his fist
like a roll and he keeps it nailed to the bed.
You swear you'll cut your hair tomorrow.
You swear you'll cut your hair tomorrow.

You still swim in memories sometimes.
It wasn't always like this, was it?

You are becoming stone
stones desire nothing
stone cannot be moved
stone can only be worn down
little by litt.e

Close your eyes and think of England.

You are tucked in for the fucking.
You're in the movie now.

There is no beauty in being held face down
on a bed of sheets that tear beneath you
and you are wearing him like a country
you haven't the strength to carry.
You're in the movie now.

You don't fight
he takes it from you
he takes it from you
he takes it from you.
Now it isn't yours, how could it be?
Isn't yours anymore, never will be again.

One eye open, focusing on the window.
Years of this
and you don't even say anything anymore.
This is how it
how it will always be.
You're in the movie now.

Cosmo has not told you what to do
in these circumstances.
Mademoiselle has not advised you
of snappy one-liners to use.
Ms. has not written an empowering column about this one.

It doesn't hurt anymore you shut down examining fibers in the pillow-case counting until he's finished 77-78-79 he says look at me look at me it's no good unless you look at me you look right through him look at your bookshelf your grandmother's patio your list of things to do this weekend the basil leaves drying by the window.

He says if you cry it will make him angry.
I fuck better when I'm angry you know.
You know.
He says it every time.
You learn not to cry.

You are startled he is doing this to you.
You are startled he knows how.
You are startled that you stay
knowing you would tell a friend to kill him
if he did this to her.

Your mouth is on fire with possibilities.
You say nothing.

You shut down your body one limb at a time
like you learned in drama class relaxation exercises.
Absence of pain makes anything possible.

You used to confuse this with caring
you used to confuse these with caresses.
Desire doesn't live here anymore
desire doesn't live here anymore.

Because you are pretty you are possessed.
You two are alone, owner and owned.

You turned over and over
backstrokes in your own blood
(horses have been christened with less).

There is no glory here
only bloodstains
and apologies that come with the stroking,
only throwing up in a sink
you'll have to scrub out later.