by Andrea Forbing-Maglione
 

Mature love is like a hot baked potato

that’s been cut up and mashed down with life’s fork,

covered with butter and sour cream.

It no longer resembles the firm, immutable

vegetable that it once was…

It is something so different

and yet still,

so much a potato.

Copyright Andrea Forbing-Maglione 2001

among other things, you were…

by Andrea Forbing-Maglione
 

susceptible

crawling there in the soil

of my memory

like an earthworm

praying no one will step on you

coming out when it rains

you were always such a rainy day friend

vulnerable

laying there on operating table

of life

like a patient with his skin stretched open

beating and pumping out deception

teaming with poisonous passion, oxygen lies and bloody truth

you were always such a hypochondriac

naked

slithering on jersey cotton sheets

in my mind

like a king cobra

succumbing to my mongoose

snaking around in my memory

you were always such a sneaky bastard

childlike

crying on the shoulder

of pity

like a school boy that never got to buy the "cool clothes"

whining about the bully at school

complaining about the way your clothes are out of style

you were always such a slave to fashion

innocent

hiding from the truth inside my eyes

of honesty

like a rat inside the Coney late at night

concealing your filth in a back storeroom, yet

wanting to come out and declare your presence

you were always such a chicken

gullible

believing that it would all work out

for the good

like some After School Special

trusting that everything would be okay

confident that you had it all figured out

you were always so naïve

needy

pleading with the voices

inside my head

like a defense lawyer at a death row sentencing

begging with your eyes

insisting with your hips

you were always so convincing
 

afraid

worrying about keeping me

on the side

like the Burger King girl that made you pay a quarter for extra sauce

worrying that her manager might see

thinking that someone might tell on her if she didn’t charge you

you were always such a boy scout

powerless

following blindly into the path of least resistance

like you were on autopilot

wandering behind convention

holding onto its tail like a baby elephant

you were always so uninventive

lost

wishing you had made a different decision

about your life

like the time you took the Gottfriedson Road exit

searching for a bathroom amongst the desolate farms

meandering thru the boondocks toward some elusive landmark

you were always so bad with directions

worried

sitting by yourself

in the unforgiving hardwood chair

like a child at the dentist

scanning the courtroom for a friendly face

hoping against hope that I might still be there

you were always so optimistic

fragile

leaving the courtroom

after the verdict

like saplings in a tornado

weeping for things that would never be

searching for answers that weren’t there

you were always so blind

disgruntled

driving home you shrink

behind the wheel

like Sexy Sally when you let the air let out of her

sinking further & further into the upholstery

melting into the faux leather

you were always such a chameleon

alone

looking around your empty house

in the gray film before the dark

like headlights seeking their terrain

looking for something comfortable in the dusk

illuminating the absence of safety

you were always so sure that she would still be there
 

Copyright Andrea Forbing-Maglione 2001

by Andrea Forbing-Maglione
 

If you listen hard you can taste the mold

hear the musty smell in your ears.

You are watching the old TV with the tinfoil on the antennas,

banished to the old beige couch

Gramma gave your mom, when she first moved out.

You look down and see the fuzzy shag carpet

Olive green, matted down with years of feet

Wonder what tales it could tell us?

Wonder where it is right now?

Would its old worn fibers have anything to say?

Pick up the old dolly in the handmade cradle.

the dolly that made crying sounds when you pushed in her tummy,

the dolly that you used to dress up, and feed, and hold

and spank, because she was a bad dolly.

All the while telling her,

"I’m doing this to show you that I love you ".

Remember how you used to get spanked

and how they told you it was because they loved you,

that they didn’t want you to turn out

this way or that way.

Because you just wouldn’t learn, because you were so hard headed.

Remember that the basement was your solace.

How you rarely had any drama down there,

except for the time that you were doing math problems

on the blackboard … long division, and you forgot to carry the one

your face tasted chalk as your head made contact

You’d never forget to do that ever again To this day, math still makes my head hurt

You recall how safe it was down there

On that old stale couch

How when you were outside, you were in danger…

Like the one time that you fucked up at the traveling

carnival and you did something wrong

(even though you can’t remember what it was)

and you got your nose bashed in

and got yelled at for bleeding on the car seat.

Wonder whatever happened to that old piece of shit car?

Maybe it lives with the old shag carpet … maybe they trade stories

Do they even make Le Car’s anymore?

Does Renault still exist?
 

Flinch when your lover makes a quick movement,

can’t even quite explain why--

it’s just a reflex.

You can’t help yourself.

It’s like a trained response,

an involuntary defense mechanism

"I’m not gonna hurt

you", he says, "I LOVE you!"

I know…

That’s what he

used to say, too.

Copyright Andrea Forbing-Maglione 2001

by Andrea Forbing-Maglione
 

Concealed by her hair

I can escape the monsters

playing hide & seek in my head.

There I crouch low

to cover my cowardice

scared but reveling in sweet shampoo

… for the smell of it

I am a child on Christmas morning

Can’t stay in bed

Can’t lie still. Can’t even wait ‘til after breakfast

For them it is the thrill of the chase,

to watch a small boy

run to piss himself in his terror

… for the fun of it

Under the cover of her mane

the bullies can’t see me

I am all at once vanished and yet, so much there.

I watch them pass by the bus stop,

searching with open, salivating mouths--

hounds looking for their fox.

… for the sport of it

From my secret hideaway

I stare out parting her locks

like a curtain

I look out into my audience

Crinkling crumbling leaves rustle,

Rude Loud, like five-year-old girls screaming

… for the sound of it

Safe inside my fragrant cave

brown tendrils falling around me

like a waterfall

I know that my pursuers

will be back, demons sent to claim the soul of the

wimp sad excuse for a man, they will swallow me

… for the hell of it

Copyright Andrea Forbing-Maglione 2001

by Andrea Forbing-Maglione

Melting

water presses steam

evaporating

fog

Sight is unclear

Child’s lips press against window

There is moist affection where her kiss used to be
 

Vibrating

recollections ripping through

pounding

remembrances

Memory is obscured

Girl’s heart wrung out like a washcloth

There is wet disillusionment where her faith used to be
 

Striking

spears plummeting downward

muting

water colors

Clarity is blurred

Maiden’s eyes search to find bottom

There is murky sludge where her reflection used to be
 

Blistering

dreams burning through

searing

nightmares

Innocence is indistinct

Woman’s utopia scorched

There is flaming fear where her courage used to be
 

Insisting

challenges taunting innocence

tempting

lies

Integrity is absent

There is debauchery where her ethics used to be

Copyright Andrea Forbing-Maglione 2001

Andrea Forbing-Maglione:

My name is Andrea Forbing-Maglione. I am an implant to the Mecca of all art, wisdom, and creativity--Ann Arbor, MI. A recent graduate of Eastern Michigan University, I studied creative writing under such authors as Mr. Clayton Eshleman, Ms. Janet Kauffman, and Mr. Larry Smith. I also enjoyed a motivating and enriching correspondence with writer and former professor of writing at Michigan State University, Ms. Diane Wakoski ("Emerald Ice"). Molded by the classic, tragic greats such as Anne Sexton, Sylvia Plath and even "the Bard".... I have been doing "REAL POETRY" since about 1994. This is when I became serious about what I was doing, pulled my head out of my ass and actually began to assemble my feelings upon the page. Often accused of being a concrete poet, I favor description rather than mystery. I don't want people to think they follow me... I want to make sure that they are swallowing the goldfish WITH ME! It is not enough for me to leave ambiguous hints that may or may not take you anywhere. I do not consider the point of poetry to be guesswork... to me poetry is all about evoking that emotion or sense or feeling. As of yet, this style of mine has not been the most popular, (I am unpublished with the exception of a few small e-zines, who have graciously chosen to showcase my work) but I refuse to change my style based upon what "they" are seeking... Because as we all know--what "they" are seeking will change in about 20 minutes. I hope that you have enjoyed reading my poems. None of the included selections have been published in print form, however, many of these poems have been or may currently be posted on my personal web site. I do not consider this "publication", but I do feel a responsibility to make the editor aware of this fact.

Visit her web site for more of her work.

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