USA

alenier@aol.com

DESPERATE STEPS
“Think hard before you take this step.”
from “Pensalo Bien,” a tango

First one
then the next
third,
fourth,
fifth familial
risers in the birth
order even a sixth
sister
our depressed mother
grew child after child. Now
ferns weed through cement,
congregate on the landing,
sexless spores argue
what is man-
made, what is
natural -- the way
light, transparent and
warm, steals audience
at the top of the stairs
from the brooding dark.

Published Potomac Review (Port Tobacco, MD),
vol 3, summer 1998; Winners:
A Retrospective of the Washington Prize
(The Word Works: Washington, DC), 1999

SEÑOR WENCES, 103,
DIES THE DAY
OF THE COLUMBINE HIGH SCHOOL MASSACRE

Johnny, the puppet,
argued with Señor Wences about driving
cars, dating girls, hitting
targets.
“Is difficult!”
the master pronounced after each
one. “Is easy,” Johnny insisted again
and again, his painted mouth opening
in an odd slip.
After all his lip
was the puppeteer’s thumb.

In the living room, the t.v. flickered
its black and white truths—Ed Sullivan
presented “a really good shoe.” “You could
be a star,” Dad said, “but
practice was self-
evident.”
On Saturdays we saw him aim,
finger the trigger and strike
the straw bull’s eye. Just before
Thanksgiving, at the Isaac Walton
League Shoot, he’d win a turkey.
Target practice paid
and for a family of eight to eat,
"is difficult" to keep meat on the table.

For a puppet, Johnny exuded
life. No bullies barred his path.
Like any teenage boy he believed
in his power to hit
the mark, get the girl,
drive away in a red
convertible.

Dad never carried a gun
in World War II, never
stalked deer or boar
in the countryside, never
pulled his piece the night
Grandpa Sol’s liquor store
was held up but he practiced.

After bantering with Johnny about the danger
of guns, Señor Wences would lift the top
of Pedro’s box and check with him. “S Awright?”
he asked. “S Awright!” Pedro affirmed.
Pedro nothing but a talking
head, prisoner
to his box.

I tell my husband this
story—One afternoon a boy
who came home with
my sister Honey spied
Dad’s hand gun and bam!
A bullet slammed through
the living
room wall.

For the sake
of argument, let’s
say it’s easy to get
the girl, easy to hit
the mark, easy to open
the door, leave in an
automobile. Dad didn’t think
it was so easy—his daughter,
his house, his gun though not
his car. How could he be
so careless?
“S Awright?” Dad would
ask when he noticed
a frown.
The right to
bear arms—I think about my father’s pistol
in the hands of my sister’s friend, the teenagers
running bloody from Columbine High and the passing
of Señor Wences, how his arm and hand became
Johnny, how he and Johnny argued about
everything including guns. Did
Johnny have arms? Were they
loaded?

NO ENTRANCE

The guard reads me
the rules in staccato
about in and out
can and not
con tact
no see through
spaghetti straps
spandex
tank or tube
low cut
décolleté
midriff
splits
slits
to the thigh
ragged
jeans
your mother
sister not
on the list
forget the key
to secure
your purse
no time like
the present -- he's
safe in lockup.

Published Apocalypse 1
(Northeastern Illinois University, Chicago, IL),
Fall 1995

© All Copyright, Karren L. Alenier.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.