Uncle Johnny’s Plastic Arm


He lost his arm falling asleep at the wheel
of a truck, elbow perched lazily
at the edge of his window.
One wrench of the wind
and a passing vehicle and it was gone.

We kids sat on his lap, ignoring
his greased back hair
and the scent of beer on his lips.
He was magical, this man whose fingers
could bend back like a doll’s.
He could have been bionic 
like The Six Million Dollar Man.
We never saw him carry anything
in his plastic hand, let alone lift a car
or a boulder with superhuman strength
but we loved him anyway.
We loved him because he let us order 
as many submarine sandwiches and
canisters of Pringles as we wanted
from a sandwich shop down the street.
We loved him because there were no
rules in his house, no homework
and we always went home
with full stomachs.

After pinching and squeezing the alien fingers
that would never again close around a beer,
I didn’t want to touch that hand again.
I never let Uncle Johnny know I thought he was a freak.  
I wanted to feel his arms around me, whole
in a hug that did not bump me
against the gaps between plastic and flesh
where his arm socket should have been.





The Chambermaid’s Garden


The chambermaid turns her face to the wall
when she hears the rustling of skirts
and laughter like the tinkling of water
of these girls who will never nod and smile, 
or look at her face, or her fingers 
flattened by the scrubbing brush.

She who wears only sensible shoes
and can afford one pair a year
wonders what it is like to walk
so lightly in skirts swaying like wings
and shoes meant only for dancing.

As the sun dips behind the house,
the chambermaid removes her shoes
as she chews a thick slice of bread
and a hunk of cheese and smiles at 
bees dipping in and out of daisies,
furry bodies digging and wings twitching
at the slightest sound or turn of the wind.

Her skirts hiked high enough 
to warm her ankles in the sun
and sink her bare feet into 
a soothing patch of grass,
she can forget the soreness
of badly-fitting shoes for an hour.