ISSUE 18
November 2001

Patricia Brody

 

Patricia Brody's main job is raising three children in New York City, five miles from ground Zero. Prior to 9/11 she wrote of women's lives: aging, children, lost love. While studying with Marilyn Hacker at CCNY, Brody has won The Geraldine Griffin Moore Award for poetry and essays on 19th century Women Romantic Poets. Brody's poems have appeared or will in Poet Lore, ForPoetry, and The Paris Review.
Does Kissing Lead To Bone Loss?     


9 a.m: Her lower left molar is in decline.
At least two others threaten to cave.
Do dreams leach the goods from our bones?
She gets new bad news every day.

9p.m.Halloween: Two who saw no threat in their dark cave
kissed long, surrounded by a crowd of watchful pines.
Her head full of dreams, his mouth eager to press
                                    the news of the day
on hers, her hair pressed to the soil.

Surrounded by a crowd of watchful pines,
he lay over her on a bed of prickly needles,
her hair pressed to the soil.
His hand crept under her shirt.

He lay over her on a bed of prickly needles
grinding the dreams from her bones.
His hand crept under her shirt.
Trembly nymphet with her teen-age pirate

grinding dreams from bones,
twining limbs where now split-ranches squat.
Trembly nymphet with her teen-age pirate,
how the pine bed scratched:  Would it hurt?

Twining limbs where now split-ranches squat,
nothing ever felt like this before, or would again.
The pine bed scratched:  Would it hurt?
Would he be tender?

Nothing ever felt like this before,  or would again.
He wouldn’t speak to her next day, or after.
Would he be tender?
(Her teeth once shivered in delight.)

He wouldn’t speak to her next day, or after,
except in dreams, her foxy mouth bruised against his.
Oh her throbbing teeth ground his in delight,
that toothsome hound who refused to speak.

Her foxy mouth, bruised against his,
still opens to bad news every day.
That toothsome hound who refused to speak?
Her mother said today he has no hair!

She gets new bad news every day.
Mother made a mountain out of him;
today she brought the news about his hair.
Swagger-boy, pre-mall punk with pomp-

(Mother made a mountain of his wavy hair)
adour—still gets a swipe at her dreams:
Swagger-boy,  pre-mall punk with pomp—
his hair is glorious, and she is 14.

 

 

 

Patricia Brody: Poetry
Copyright © 2001 The Cortland Review Issue 18The Cortland Review