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Reclining Woman,
Black and White Photograph
Transfixed, I studied
the photograph of a reclining woman,
naked as a peeled
apple, her back to the camera,
jaw-droppingly
beautiful.
Suddenly, the purported
origin of the Trojan War
seemed plausible.
Men would slaughter others
to capture and
possess her.
The photograph explored
her body as a basilica, caressing
her shoulders,
arpeggioing down the white keys of her spine,
celebrating her
buttocks. Surely, she was evidence that God must love us.
I turned to leave
the gallery and saw a tall woman regarding me with a wry,
knowing smile.
I’m sure she thought, “Eat your heart out, you old goat.”
Not a bull’s-eye
but not much off target.
Joel Fallon
Copyright 3 May
2010
Tiny Metal Flags
What will the gold-star
mothers say?
“You mean we didn’t win?
You’re saying my boy died in vain,
and we’re walking
away
like we did from Saigon?”
And dads who shake
their fists at little league,
“. . . sons-of-bitches don’t play fair!
My boy gets killed
so some Iraqi gal
can drive a car and
walk around without a veil?
Ain’t that
a crock of shit!”
Come closer moms and
dads and hear
a secret truth.
They always, always
die in vain.
War takes money meant
for schools and roads and medicine
and gives it to rich
men, hungry for more.
And money’s not enough,
of course. We send kids from our poor families to bully their poor families.
And sometimes
we get whipped.
In modern wars, the
winners don’t wear camouflage.
They wear business
suits. Oh say can you see ? on their impeccable lapels, defiant but defeated,
tiny metal flags.
Joel Fallon
Copyright © 17
July 2010
Afternoon
In The Kitchen
She is nimble in the
kitchen
preparing early dinner.
Sugar, half teaspoon
in the wooden bowl
to defuse the clove
of garlic rubbed in circles
in the bowl.
Her apron says “KISS
THE COOK.”
I long to do so.
The salad comes together
magically.
Apron and light dress
beneath do not conceal
fluid movement nor
mask the beauty of her form.
We sip a glass of
plonk.
She prepares the tomato
sauce with speed and grace
and brings the water
to a boil, adds oil and a pinch of salt
then the pasta.
There is a sheen on
her forehead.
She smiles and removes
the garlic bread
from the oven.
I am undone and love
her.
I’ve acquired an appetite
and can’t bear
to sit here much longer
without
eating her spaghetti
straps.
Joel Fallon
Copyright © 23
July 2010
