Bea Garth

Figs

by Bea Garth
copyright 2008

I reach up
and pick the tender sacks
amongst the gnarled branches
the sun filling both the fruit and my desire
barely shaded by the sparse green leaves
as I think of us
in the wee hours of the night and morning
describing the twists of the honey bee
and the bounty of the Goddess
saving us both
despite our tortured pasts,
our smiles deepening
sharing honeyed passion
savored like these sweet gritty seeds
I bite into
red and pink
beneath the sun purpled skin.

Waking To A Thought Of A Shark

by Bea Garth
copyright 2008

You tell me your mind is like a white shark
as we walk amongst the aisles at Albertson’s,*
I buy yogurt and bananas and you a submarine sandwich
–and suddenly I see you
with your eyes gleaming
sparkling with dangerous
mischievous intelligence,
your mouth wanting to chew
on the minds of others,
wanting to swallow our whole civilization.
You swim down the aisle
like a shark smelling the fish,
the blood, the discarded entrails
chumming the water
from the boat called “Western Man”
and I being a woman wonder
where is the Goddess, the Nurturer
except in the food that poisons your body?

Your Goddess is like a crusty old crab
moving sideways, hiding amongst
the seashells and half eaten bones
that your teeth missed.
I want to take her, to take her
and your mouth
and your excellent eyes and nose,
and say yes, look at the detritus,
but also look at yourself—
what kind of shark are you
when you yourself are poisoned by the chum,
by the bright neon lights
of the supermarket aisles
and extruded civilization?

I look at your soft white underbelly
as you circle your prey dreaming of mermaids
with their thick shining tails and full breasts
and long hair wafting about them like seaweed
in the magazine and video sections
and I wonder if you will ever
be more like them,
enjoying the soft sensuousness of the sea,
the discovery and play of being in water without needing to kill,
without needing

Cherries

by Bea Garth,

copyright 2008

I ate up almost all
of the black Bing cherries
this afternoon thinking of you
driving my blue pick up from Portland
to Eugene, eating Royal Annes
just picked from the old fruit farm
where you are staying ensconced
in a miniature bus
so clean and white and fresh
with its bare tatami mats, feeling open,
despite its postage stamp size
and the gray rain and time-spotted exterior.
Now it is sunny and warm this afternoon
just after experiencing July third and fourth
with you, sharing gas expenses,
going to a slide show,
having brunch with your old
vagabond poet friend
and his cohorts and my poet friend
who is about to leave for the East Coast.

Three cherries still sit in the white
ceramic bowl on the blue table cloth.
The sun streams in from under
the window shade.
Earlier I stretched out on the back lawn
and let my legs bask in the sun
while my head lay in the shade
and I looked up at the wisteria pods
and twisting bark. And I remember
the little girl during brunch
who wondered what that lump was
on your throat and I told her
that it was an Adam’s Apple,
and that most men have them,
it’s just more obvious in some
than in others – and I looked
at your long neck red from the sun
and your corny South Dakota humor
and later you asked for some black tea
with a pretend English accent
while up above us yellow butterflies
flew a patterned loop
in and out of the fruit trees
overhead.

open those sharp teeth
quite so wide. Gingerly,
I put my hand in yours
and you grin, winking at me,
your body swaying
slightly voluptuous yet dangerous
as we round the bend.

(*Albertson’s is a chain grocery store in the Pacific Northwest)