I taught them…each…to nose wriggle
like a rabbit…to imagine a bee sitting
at their nose tip about to sting…perhaps
unless they quickly wiggled it away…and
that there are no guarantees in real life
that they would not be hurt…I told them
I taught them…each… to close observe
the curve of listeners’ lips for secret
disbelief…disdain…the doubting shown
when lips are closed and corners flicked
down even for an instant…I told them
and then I wrote gesnorenplartz upon a screen
and told them that it meant smashed peas
and then I watched…and so did they…each other
and then they mostly knowing smiled
and then we began our reading of his tragedy…
how…what happened when…Montague and Capulet
and Friar and Nurse and Escalus of Verona lied
oh, when they lied…to their young
In Spring, when Aeolus breathes
across their farms, girls boys lift
diamond butcher paper balsa wood
tied kites into his breath to feel out
currents, pull and sway…to test for
dominance of distance draft and lift.
Should such taunting pastime flag…
especially when Zeus streaks bolts
of lightning from his distant clouds…
their sporting turns to trouting with
live worms on hooks on lines on fish
poles by Naiades’ stream, in wordless
rivalry for the longest rainbow…best
tussle with a catch…finesse in reeling
out a gasping fish onto the grass.
When distant shouts bell whistle,
or the slant of shadow from a tree,
summon them to home, they end
camaraderie for one last sport…
these young contenders on a field.
They grasp hands tight slippery
with dirt spit sweat…link a ragged
crack-the-whip-snap for one last
quick elbow jab, foot trip, arm jerk,
stubbed toe, let go, fall dizzy to the
ground…as they play out their mythic
childhood of no tears, first middle last,
win lose…high tension…limit testing
dominance of lines.
Eat raw cookie dough for vanilla
butter salty sweet with a chip
of chocolate melting finish the way
I do…I know…I know the egg and
the salmonella…what the hell…
just do it.
My six-year self loved raw beef;
ate bright red hamburger with
my dad with lots of pepper salt
god…that was glorious…though
don’t relish it as much since he…
the missing is still fresh.
Mom and I lounged on a porch to
watch storms…great gashes of bright
lightning and chest thump thunder;
we’d ooh and aaw at strikes as if
they were fireworks.
And…oh they gave me freedom
to be dusty trail stream woodland
wilded fisher child talkative…curious
with gypsies gathering dandelions for
bitter tonic…in our pastureland with
me acres and acres away from home
me…their only child…my folks they
just did it.
I know…I know the dangers…and
they raised me their way…then;
damn-ed outcomes seem to hover
closer now for solo children…for
we’re used to expect danger…not
as much do risky…not to think weigh
teach caution balance breathe and
then just…let…them…do it.
some nights then…
the three year girl twins
would freeze in place
for countdown
ten…nine…eight….
then…naked time!
to rowdy monkeyness…
throw play clothes on the floor
bounce trampoline the couch
whoop laughter in the hall
slow tumble carpet steps
tag “germs!”…foot tickle
hair pull…sneaky pinch
rain shower tears…all better
ice cream dribble on their toes
to bubble bath…pajamas…bed
sometimes now…
they’re in their eighties…
one will call the other
of an evening…before bed
…shout…naked time!
then hang up listening to
the other’s merriment
Bonnie Marshall
Painting by Leah Chapin
tales told by crones catch us
tales told by crones catch us
in thorns of awe full disbelief
and tangle us in rawness at
beguiling edges of credulity
as when they tell us Mandragora
screams its loosening from earth…
kills the first to hear its shriek and
carries in its brew a potent sleep
like death enough to bury Cleopatra
in deep hallucinating dreams…unclasp
her wanting until Anthony’s return
as when Circe warned Odysseus
to place bee’s wax warmed… still
honey sweet against the eardrums
of his loyal oarsmen…lash himself
with ropes fast to the mast, so as
crazed with lust…not to dash
their bodies into wine-dark sea
toward distant Sirens singing
prophesies
as when we scoff at fortune tellers,
psychics, casters charting horoscopes
and refrain from seeing meaning in
crows angling through the sky….and
just at midnight…in darkness outside
our bedroom window… owl hoots
that we muffle with our pillows
Bonnie Marshall
Painting by Unknown Artist
tick tock smolder woman
(for Aggie)
old woman floats the
putting of an order in
the day…tick tock… no
aspirin for two hours…
while toxic juice leaks
from defrosting chicken
and cat sleeps in-different
upon floored Bargello
pillows…stitch in time…when
Eddie was in high school…
hear his music tin-tinnitus
dry rot the wallboards in
her ears to muffle pumping
metronome…tick tock…flutter
somewhere in her ribs on
tree limb bones wrapped
cotton bark to tingle fire
of roots in woolen socks on
old… tick tock…smolder woman
Bonnie Marshall
Painting by Pablo Picasso
Crones Tell Me Wonders
Crones tell me wonders
of times they were near death
womb warm…light beckoning…
and then harsh second birth
with sharp pain flashes
back to a gray unfolding.
Crones tell me of their dreams
for they dwell often there.
Then… like returned travelers…
they recount amazements
of places they have been.
“I dreamed laughing babies
invited me to dance.”
Her voice trailed thin laughter.
“What do you think of that…”
She wasn’t questioning…
just gazing past me…reflective,
mind back into that world.
“How lovely it would be…”
Reflection then…was mine.
let questions hang to ripen into asking
for consequence of too rash decision
is a bellyache
know when to be wise lawyer
to anticipate the answer if you would
lead others on a path
and when you are the other
judge the question not as
functionary or a puzzle piece
shaved for fitting in a space
do not opt for quickness of reply
and be wise in reflective silence
for there is ease in a waiting time
know there is dignity in ignorance
when maturity is in the greenness
of a young child’s mind…
rather sprinkle questions like a salt
to increase their thirstiness
Proem... 
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