Sunning in St. Martin, I think I see
C. K. Williams on a yellow scooter.
I take this to mean something
has happened to my children and call
home. All is well, says a voice at the other
end I don’t recognize. Then he hangs
up. Frantic, I go to the bodega next
door. The cashier holds an AK-47 and tells
me jump ropes are on sale.
Have you seen C. K. Williams? I ask.
Who the fuck is that? he shouts and fires
a bullet into my throat.
SEARCHING FOR MIRACLES WITH A CONDOM-COVERED PROBE
We peek at each other from behind magazines.
Did your lesbian lover hold your back last night
while needling seventy-five units into the soft part
of your tummy? And that man eating the complimentary
Sara Lee pound cake—Didn’t you just climax
into a cup that might be baby tea in an hour?
Once, at a women’s retreat, I met an infertile
physician’s assistant who couldn’t work with women
who bulged beyond lima bean. Couldn’t watch egg
and sperm grow baby. She rocked back and forth
in our sweat lodge crying her baby out her eyes.
I understand now. The TV whispers of Michael Jackson’s
funeral, the printer breaks, the receptionist laughs,
and we come back tomorrow hoping the farmer
will have better eggs and we won’t forget to validate
our parking tickets.
MARCIA LeBEAU has been published or has work forthcoming in Moon City Review, Rattle, SLANT, and others. She holds an MFA in poetry from the Vermont College of Fine Arts’ creative writing program and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Marcia lives in South Orange, New Jersey. www.marcialebeau.com.