Chris Anderson three poems "Nye Beach" "Cartoon Hearts" in Literary Potpourri

Once there was a row of little houses
in the shadow of a great white bridge,
and the little boy picked honeysuckle
on the grassy bank beneath it, pinching
the blossoms and sucking the honey.

The great span overarched the rickety
street where grandma lived. A crippled
man sat on the porch next door. He may
have had no legs. At the filling station,
Pegasus sprang from a faded sign.

Once, after they sprayed the orchard,
the boy walked out among the trees,
stepping through high, forbidden grass.
Poison, he'd been told, skull and cross
bones, but some urge compelled him.

That evening blood cells marched
on the Zenith, hurrying on stick legs,
white cells and red cells pouring from
a cartoon house, and for days he knew
he was dying. The stick legs marched

through his own blood, emptying
his cartoon heart. For days he walked
the tiny house, sighing. He stretched
out his arms in the dimness, fingers
brushing the afghans, the doilies.

home
	Poems by Chris Anderson NYE BEACH The angel waits, brown wings thick as davenports. The ringlets on her cap of curls are the color of tea. But she seems distracted. Beneath those heavy lids her pupils dilate. Maybe she dreams. Maybe something she remembers starts to make her smile the way she is. All we know is that she isn't paying attention. She doesn't see the waves sluice the rocks or the gulls scrap, the family gather on the shore, little boy racing with his bucket. How his sweatshirt reaches his shins, how a lock of his hair stands on end. © 2003 Chris Andrews
	BRANCHES Bare branches of maple and oak fork and vee until the air is thick with intersection. Every crook and juncture vectors into wedges crossing and twisting ever further back even to the iteration of twigs. The fabric is too intricate for geometry. Each rough stick slightly curves. Each branch pulls back like a bloom. © 2003 Chris Andrews
	CARTOON HEART Once there was a row of little houses in the shadow of a great white bridge, and the little boy picked honeysuckle on the grassy bank beneath it, pinching the blossoms and sucking the honey. The great span overarched the rickety street where grandma lived. A crippled man sat on the porch next door. He may have had no legs. At the filling station, Pegasus sprang from a faded sign. Once, after they sprayed the orchard, the boy walked out among the trees, stepping through high, forbidden grass. Poison, he'd been told, skull and cross bones, but some urge compelled him. That evening blood cells marched on the Zenith, hurrying on stick legs, white cells and red cells pouring from a cartoon house, and for days he knew he was dying. The stick legs marched through his own blood, emptying his cartoon heart. For days he walked the tiny house, sighing. He stretched out his arms in the dimness, fingers brushing the afghans, the doilies. © 2003 Chris Andrews § § § Chris Anderson is Professor of English at Oregon State University and author of nine books, including Edge Effects (Iowa, 1993), a finalist for the Oregon Book Award in creative nonfiction. A book of his poems, My Problem with the Truth, will be published this winter by Cloudbank, the first in the Northwest Poetry Series.