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Susan Scutti

 

Casual Runes

Although the children have been
plagued our fear
has not yet trembled into
loathing and we find ourselves soothed by
mild dis-chord
unimagined harmonies of trust.

If we were to consider the atrocity of sterility…
If we were to look beyond a map…
If we were to lose our faith in natural law…

“...eyes hardening as she
approached her term.”

Is it really this simple?
Has it always been thus.

Rise with me to
time-filled accord
persuade disheartened mortals
troubled by fear, troubled by all that is
not dear
no more to
tend, rend or dread.

A simple truth in stealth:
We.

 

Is it possible?

Although some require a
satellite others do not. Your
social temperament is necessarily encased
within a smile, a show of
teeth. Damp is the hand you
extend to the accuser. Lunar movement
beyond these walls, this atmosphere of
crowded melancholy,
controls the sanguine tide within
and without limitation. Forgetfulness
easily suffices for
forgiveness. One theory of
lust is kindness absent the
eventual scorn of contemplated departure.

 

Qi Gong

The massage place: a smell of unpleasant food. White curtains separate the storefront into private sections like a shared hospital room. The unshapely masseuse is hurting me as tells me she’s from Argentina. (Briefly, a memory of Juan Torcoletti, the Argentinian painter, and the calendar he made, each date a different political attitude.) I stand, nearly lose my balance. This was a mistake. On the other side of the curtain, a man coughs. I always do my best crying in doctor’s offices. Usually when I’m nearly naked except for a thin gown, and lying on a padded table in a cool room. Waiting for someone official to tell me I’m still healthy. Hearing the masseuse’s accented English, I step into my sandals.

              I part the curtain
              look through the storefront window
              into the dim street.

An elderly man peers inside, squinting with the effort. When he sees my returning stare, he lifts his hand, begins to wave then drops his hand abruptly as if he’s forgotten what such a gesture might mean.

 

 

 

Susan Scutti's poems have been published in New York Quarterly, The Paterson Literary Review, Haz-Mat Review, Aloud Voices from Nuyorican Poets Cafe, The Outlaw Bible of American Poetry, Philadelphia Poets, Tamarind and other journals. Her chapbook, We Are Related was published by Three Rooms Press. Her full collection, The Commute (Paper Kite Press) was recently released. Contact author.

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