A somewhat impossible request -- if you know of any female fiction writers who are well-published and live in New York City, and who are nice and non threatening, and who would like to teach a 6 week beginning fiction writing course for very little money (about 100), could you maybe let me know?

Night of the Living! err. Afternoon of the ...

This is still ruff.


Important Questions
.
How do I know I’m not a zombie?
.
I walk slow, sometimes I stagger.
My cats are disappearing.
.
The screen door is ripped, shreds of it
lie strewn among larch leaves on the porch.
.
I can’t say when that happened.
.
My parents don’t answer my letters.
My boss looks right through me in the elevator.
The other secretaries have stopped taking
jelly beans from the cut crystal glass on my desk.
.
If I open the file drawer, it shines like a ghastly moon.
Sometimes when I sit down the seat
of my plastic chair is still warm,
as if someone just left.

I leave gifts outside my boyfriend’s bedroom
door; he doesn’t stop to unwrap them.
Perhaps the gray earth on the ribbons
make him uneasy.
.
I appear to be missing more than just a toe.
.
And the stench-- like a fish
tank when all the oscars have gone belly up,
and the pale flesh on their stomachs sways
like my breasts loose in this ripped blouse.
.
It smells so horribly female,
as if my teeth are infected with a virus
patched together by some doctor
with spectacles and a grudge.
.
I wake up Sunday mornings
my mouth and hands smeared
with red. There’s steak in the refrigerator.
Maybe I just get hungry.
.
How can I tell who it is I’ve consumed?

More poems about food and longing:


The Unmade Toast

On the second week
of the All Twig Diet,
I start to dream about food.
.
You wouldn't believe how much
protein there is in peanut butter,
the woman seated at my mother's kitchen
.
table tells me. I remember the round
table, gouged with the backs of steel forks,
and how it died violently by fire and I
.
begin to weep and thrash my legs. The deer
walk through the kitchen again, their
eyes blazing red in the headlights.
They tear at the blue checked curtains
made of dish towels above the sink.
The window there is so small it makes me
short and unable to grab the butter
and jalepenos on the top shelf
of the refrigerator.
.
Over my shoulder in the next room,
a clean-cut man in a dirty shirt
stares at shadows on a prison
wall with windows no one can reach.
.
The light is leaving us now:
the bulb burnt out again above the stove,
the lawn outside darkening,
and the woman puts her head in her hands.
.
There's something I want to say to her
about wheat bread, or perhaps about carbon
and its offspring, perhaps about the importance
of water in a balanced diet but when
it comes out, I'm talking about balancing
on a diving board, the high one
.
and I must crawl down
before the firemen arrive.

Pictures from the reading Monday night, just of me (no naked butt ladies, this is family friendly!)










There's no more coming! So stop begging, seriously, it's undignified.