Aposematism

Porcupines have quills, skunks have their funk.
Hedgehogs roll away, leaving predators
to seek easier prey. Tortoises withdraw
into the home they carry. Rabbits
to their burrows. Even snails find refuge
from unwanted touch, and sea anemones, asexual,
retract into the cavity of their mouths
when under attack, armed to sting.
Poison dart frogs reveal
their toxicity through their skin,
pigments screaming caution.

The poor human
I am— evolved
with no protections,
offering no warnings—

I roll over, present you
the soft risk of my belly.

     Aposemitism first appeared in ONE ART

At the Ob/Gyn

The doctor spreads a thin layer of conductive gel
on the moon-shaped surface of my pregnant skin.
The ultrasound wand passes over and detects a beat—
the faint first pulse of my new-formed boy—
the reality of a body within my body finally sinking in.

Across the street, my mother lies in intensive care,
paralyzed from an attempt to remove a tumor from her brain;

I encouraged the surgery. She might never walk again.
The doctor reads my tears as joy
and I couldn't say whether he's right or wrong.
It's true we're only flies to wanton gods—
we lay our eggs, create a buzz, and then we're gone.

     At the Ob/Gyn was first in my chapbook, Alinea, as far as I can tell

Foxes in the Meadow

And I know it's spring by the 7th graders
trading barbs     drawing penises
on the white board     stealing
each other's pens or other treasures
testing the limits of their reach
they encroach on each other's spaces
laugh outrageously     at anything
embarrassing their     lengthening
limbs and hormones always testing
the limits of the teacher's patience
balancing their childhood on their bravado
tilting against expectations     just enough
not too much     their chairs lean back
only two legs holding them
to the ground     sometimes they tip
brush it off     feign tough
they pounce at shadows     play
in this meadow     dancing
in the in-between.

     Foxes in the Meadow Was published by Sheila-Na-Gig

Passing

I stood with the commandments,
followed them to the letter. I hid
who I was – hitchhiked through churches
looking for a handout of spirit,

a whiff of G-d riding on the swing
of incense in a thurible,
hiding the smoke of shoplifted cigarettes.

I kneeled at the altar of the toilet,
trying to be thinner, to shed the weight
of guilt, to blend in with all those sinners –

my lighter friends in their plaid skirts
eating fish dinners on Fridays,
handing over their wrongdoings
in the Sunday confessional.

In my fourth-grade photo I wore two chains:
a cross and a silver Star of David
and believed I had it covered.

     Passing was in Gyroscope Review

The last time I saw Richard

I discuss Richard with Richard
during a therapy session. Imagining.
The old Gestalt Empty Chair Technique.

He sits in the chair opposite me,
so gangly, like he’s always been,
six foot five, legs too long
to ever be at ease, frame
meant for basketball, brain meant
for math, calculating the distance
to the hoop. His sudden stroke at seventeen
like a swoosh through the net, game-ending.

The last time I saw Richard, Joni sings,
and every time I wonder if it was.
The last time.

He was in the hospital with the bed tray
between us, and nothing much
to say. I had done him wrong,
as his father had, eloping
with his aunt. As his mother had
for favoring him. As his brother had
for forgiving him.

Was I to blame for not loving him,
beyond the cookies we baked for the team
and the occasional make-out sessions
when I gave in to my own loneliness
and his longing?

But where was I?
He sits across from me, no
longer in control of his limbs,
and I can hardly look at him,
even this projection. I didn’t
expect this solidity. But here he is,
waiting.

His face is twisted, his tongue
is re-learning to talk. He regards me
with bitterness. Tell me about despair, I long
to say. I will tell you about mine. He unlocks
his wheels and rolls away.

     The last time I saw Richard was in ONE ART

Seeing Shrek at the Drive-in During a Pandemic

Ogres are like onions, and I am too,
taking off the outer skin for a couple of hours
to be close to kin. I peel my gloves off

after the ticket taker hands me a menu
for the snack bar, edge away as far as I can
from the van they wave me next to

which is spilling laughing children. The dark descends.
Shrek slouches before a rising moon, Donkey nearby.
I sigh in recognition, alone in the swamp

heat of my enclosed car, shutting out
the unmasked. In the car to my right
my daughter behind glass, windows up.

We communicate by phone and gesture,
with thumbs up and heads bobbing
to the soundtrack of her childhood.

I am trying to atone, for all my layers -
the rawness, the cutting, the weeping -
of the onion, the irritants which sear.

In the castle a dragon slumbers,
ready to fire up its scorching breath.
At night I assume my true form, hope

that I might be loved anyway;
by light of day I spin candy floss from spider webs,
balloon whatever frogs come my way.

© Copyright Betsy Mars, all rights reserved.