kathy walker

At the Rockefeller Greenhouse

Concrete floor panels rock as we walk.
Mechanical intestines–ceiling apparatus–rust
hanging from the frosted panels. It is
a quiet institution.

Mom sits on the floor, eye level with an orchid.
Mom's chinois purse sits next to her,
wallpaper flower pattern, a scatter of beads.
Mom is contained in herself, her apple head,
the confidence of accumulated jewelry and
wardrobe. Her composed womanhood
an assurance for me.

I sit on the marble bench next to her. Nerve plants
and colius peekaboo behind my feet. I tell Mom
this is the Garden of Eden. Water urinates
behind the petalled order of things. Snake plants
congregate in the corner.

In the cactus room, we’re on another planet.
One cactus has spread itself as if walking.
Mom says it is not good to move plants;
they like to stay put. I tell her, that's why
they never evolved like us.

Later, we drive down MLK. The sun casts
dendritic shadows from the naked trees.
I believe the trees are individuals.
They are grand and alone.

June

I'm sure I've heard this poem before

June, where were you
when Ward came home?
It is your time again.

You were in the kitchen, chopping delicately
saying yes dear
and your lips were so gothic

June--I imagine you with
                                               Lucy
on the chocolate line
instead of Ethel

or with the Beatles in India--
swallowing swords
strings of pearls
coughed up from your stomach

or in some Edward Gorey Story

Or in some place where
They would worship
your breasts

build temples to them
twin towers
to capitalism
and the American Dream

and you and Lucy
(that kook)
could go to some other jazz club

cuz Ricky is so
dominating so
machismo

or maybe you just sit in a back
room on “chintz” cushions
reading Ayn Rand
in Black Frame Glasses
which are back in style again
like noire, nukes, and intellectualism
and you would be in black
with black on black shadows
and the pearls?

I can imagine a lot of things for you
June

and it is much better than just
being
Beaver   Cleaver’s
Mother.

Kill Them All

Lead thoughts in the morning in my goal-mobile. The public radio
station advertises the sniper on the freeway near Columbus.

Next blurb: the administration doesn't support gay marriage and all
the states are figuring things out. This is considered an issue this year.

The prophesies are true. Unemployed dancers
ballet off buildings in 9-1-1 re-enactments. Wily Coyote
discovers he is no longer on the road, but suspended,
in air, and upon this recognition, gravity pulls him into a poof.

Noam Chomsky says there is no difference between
Bugs Bunny and Mickey Mouse, but I know
who the labor unions support.

I get off the freeway exit and do the home stretch to work,
looking forward to the coffeepot. In our parking lot,
on the Acme dumpster, someone spray painted kill them all.

Kathy Walker