Kate Fetherston three poems in Literary Potpourri

The ones who need watching
sprawl on sprung couches
waiting for the last
meds call. Outside barred
windows, soundless late night traffic.
I crisscross a bishop's move
across the checkered floor while
pretending to swallow those pink
capsules. Every day I think less
clearly. Nights there's one
orderly clanking his wad
of ward keys who backs

me into the wall, flicks his
lighter into my eyes. We both
know I can't tell. Already locked
down twice in the quiet
room ----it took three big boys
to drag me in, flip
on the overhead and click
the metal door shut. Wraith faces
through the wire mesh
made sure I was still
strapped to the plastic
mattress, still

breathing. Earlier in the shrink's
cubicle, he edged
in confidentially, whispered,
A rolling stone
gathers no moss.
The stone, I said, so weary
of motion, grieves for the green
arms of the soul, longs for the indigo
waters of its first
inviolate body. He nodded
then said, If you put your hand
into the lion's mouth, why complain

when it gets bitten off? His fake
leg stuck out as he swung
up from the chair and lost
his balance. I cried,
Timber! Outside he yakked
with the nurses like I'm so crazy
maybe I'm deaf. She's not
dealing with her disease. I'm going to stick
a feeding tube down her throat. Sometimes
you have to tie them up
to save them. Just don't
let that nutjob ex-

lover of hers in. My fist
balled, feeling for the silky scar knit
over my left hand. My ex, high on booze
and coke had reached inside her bomber
jacket, held the boning knife to my throat
sobbing, You can't leave-----you
are the strong one. Strands
of March sunlight laid
their fine fingers along the blade, shifty
as promises made on our last
seaside jaunt. My heart
thudded in my ears. A faucet

dripped. The knife caught
my hand that dropped
slow berries into the carpet. I waited
for her to come back
into her eyes but
she didn't. I never
told the shrink about the knife. Why
bother? Even the cops said, No one
cares about gay girls
cutting each
other up. Tomorrow through this
peepshow window, the shrink will watch

me draw pawns toppling
foot-bound kings, knights
tangling cornered rooks----each
marauds a checkered sky, hunting
the queen who will not
show-----each blots out the other's
moves on sheet
after sheet of butcher paper.

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	Poems by Kate Fetherston BREAK The ones who need watching sprawl on sprung couches waiting for the last meds call. Outside barred windows, soundless late night traffic. I crisscross a bishop's move across the checkered floor while pretending to swallow those pink capsules. Every day I think less clearly. Nights there's one orderly clanking his wad of ward keys who backs me into the wall, flicks his lighter into my eyes. We both know I can't tell. Already locked down twice in the quiet room ----it took three big boys to drag me in, flip on the overhead and click the metal door shut. Wraith faces through the wire mesh made sure I was still strapped to the plastic mattress, still breathing. Earlier in the shrink's cubicle, he edged in confidentially, whispered, A rolling stone gathers no moss. The stone, I said, so weary of motion, grieves for the green arms of the soul, longs for the indigo waters of its first inviolate body. He nodded then said, If you put your hand into the lion's mouth, why complain when it gets bitten off? His fake leg stuck out as he swung up from the chair and lost his balance. I cried, Timber! Outside he yakked with the nurses like I'm so crazy maybe I'm deaf. She's not dealing with her disease. I'm going to stick a feeding tube down her throat. Sometimes you have to tie them up to save them. Just don't let that nutjob ex- lover of hers in. My fist balled, feeling for the silky scar knit over my left hand. My ex, high on booze and coke had reached inside her bomber jacket, held the boning knife to my throat sobbing, You can't leave-----you are the strong one. Strands of March sunlight laid their fine fingers along the blade, shifty as promises made on our last seaside jaunt. My heart thudded in my ears. A faucet dripped. The knife caught my hand that dropped slow berries into the carpet. I waited for her to come back into her eyes but she didn't. I never told the shrink about the knife. Why bother? Even the cops said, No one cares about gay girls cutting each other up. Tomorrow through this peepshow window, the shrink will watch me draw pawns toppling foot-bound kings, knights tangling cornered rooks----each marauds a checkered sky, hunting the queen who will not show-----each blots out the other's moves on sheet after sheet of butcher paper. © 2003 Kate Fetherston
	STICK SEASON November's rains rot haystacks and shucked cornstalks. Trees stick up along muddy paddocks, strike reckless poses, freeze frames in a game of red light, green light. And what of my body, primed for small tenderness, its seasons of blood coming to an end. The voices of my children hover unborn in the air, the husks of their bodies splinter each moon into stars. This is my stick season. If I could spring as lightning from heaven to the edge of a meadow about to green, I'd corral a chorus of thunder at my back, and into that distance howl the names of all those I've loved----yes, and those I longed to love. Each syllable would tumble from my tongue and fall to the sullen earth as dew. © 2003 Kate Fetherston
	BOWLING ALLEY OF DESIRE That last Thursday night, at the Cardinal Lanes we were just a couple of lesbians from the other side of town. Del Paso Boulevard's blue neon streetlights backlit the bowling alley bar. On the counter, pickled eggs swam in red juices. The Bud Lite sign spat above racks of stinky shoes. It meant nothing that my love turned away as she pulled off her coat and leaned to light a cigarette, that she smiled at someone else's joke. It meant nothing but I blinked and she was gone when you walked in. Now, sweet man, is our love less terrible? This morning you pull me toward you as dawn edges around the blinds. I slide your cock into my mouth----your face unreadable in the half light-----but I make out your tender mouth forming its exhalation. Your tang on my lips, your hands in my hair-----and still------ framed in the 40-watt flicker of the old bowling alley, how she bent her body reaching for the black ball, and, taking her chances, let it slide all the way down. © 2003 Kate Fetherston § § § Kate Fetherston is a writer, musician, and psychotherapist. She lives in Montpelier, Vermont and is a student in the Vermont College MFA program. She can be reached at mira1@adelphia.net