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                                                                                                Teresa White



Fat Girls Have Pretty Hands

She wears a Hawaiian muumuu;
Georgia OíKeefeís bold flowers
bloom across the fabric in red and gold.

I see her at Safeway shopping alone
and watch her cart fill up
with Pepsi, Doritos, Hostess Twinkies.
Her feet poke sloppily out of a pair
of skimpy sandals.

And I canít help notice her beautiful
plump hands, white as wedding cake,
resting on the rim of her shopping cart.

I can almost see her at night, alone,
in some huge ruffled bed as her hands
go down under the covers.

Her hands, her lovely hands.



Looking Up

Fill your poem with air.
Let it float over a countryside
busy with cows and little lakes.

Draw a man in a fishing boat
and set him gently down
making sure not to break his line.

Let your poem shoot from the contrail
of a plane,

send up a dirigible painted with words
that have no other medium
but sky

on a perfectly blue day

and I will respond in kind:
accept a marriage proposal
or simply go about the rest of the afternoon

reciting your verse
tangled with a V of geese
knowing the way home.



Dream Of A Disappearing House

I undo the hasp on the lid
of the dark box of night
and all the stars fall down.

I raise the sidewalls
and spring rushes in,
all trellis and bouquet.

And there in a corner is a man
who isnít you yet
hanging onto a sheet begging

me not to take the house
and everything in it.



                                                                                                © Teresa White

triple rule

Loch Raven Review Winter 2005 — Vol. I, No. 2
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