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Poetry Page
1

Fall
2009

The
Pie Wilderness

by Karen
Kelsay

There is a
special wedge of hell
served up to women who
slip
a store-bought pie onto the Thanksgiving

dinner table. Unaware

of their
actions, they spread an annual
layer of shame
across the heads of all
womankind and it
sticks
like old meringue to the minds
of
new generations. My mother knows

the value
of baking from scratch
and it was rolled and
patted into my head
before I could sprinkle
cinnamon
on a cookie. Sure, men folk may

line up to partake of that Marie Calander pie

the new daughter-in-law laid down.

But, they instinctively know
not to rave
over it or take seconds,
lest the “pie maker
wrath” be scooped
upon their heads

and
they become a cursed race,
sent with empty
plates
into the wilderness
to roam among
the oldies
at buffet Restaurants
on
all consequent holidays,
forever and
eternity.
Amen.

Bio:

Karen Kelsay is a native
Californian who grew  up near the Pacific and
spent most of her weekends

on a boat, as a child.
She has three children, two cats
and extended family
in England, where she loves to visit.

Her poems have been
widely published over the past few years in journals,
including The Boston Literary

Review, The New
Formalist, Flutter Poetry journal, and Willow's Wept Review.
Her first book, Collected Poems,

was finished in 2008
and a chapbook, A Fist of Roots,
was published by
Puddinghouse Press in 2009.

http://www.karenkelsay.com/

ANNA’S DIATRIBE
FOR TODAY

by John Grey

She says
sometimes

she hates men,
all men,

especially when
they’re without trousers,

when their
heads

are soaring over
mountains, clouds

while their penis
is digging in the dirt.

She mentions
names of men, then types of men.

She squeezes them
all together with one word.

“Men.”

What’s left over
when she tastes the sound of it

oozes out between
her teeth.

Then she’s
silent

but I know she’s
saying the word again in her head.

Her brow
wrinkles.

She lets me read
it like a palm.

Then I hear bits
and pieces

of what men have
done to her:

strangers, her
father, lovers, bosses,

the stiff she
married.

With each one,
her voice snaps

like elastic
breaking.

And then,
exhausted by her own venom,

she collapses
into my arms.

She has a way of
saying,

“You’re not like
other men,”

that other men
will never hear.

Bio:  John Grey has
been published recently in the Georgetown Review,
Connecticut Review,  South
Carolina Review and The Pedestal, with work
upcoming in Poetry East and The
Pinch.

THE
TANGO

by Mike
Berger

Music
filled the dimly lit room.

The
latin beat invited us to
dance.

I took
her in my arms and began

to
slide. She followed my every

move.
Her dark brown eyes were

fixed
on mine. We slid sideways

and
that classical tango steps.

My
hand caressed her back as

her
body pressed against mine.

She
moved with catlike grace

as the
music resounded the

tango
pace. Her cheeks were

flushed and lips had a
subtle

pucker. They were inviting
a

kiss.
As the music stopped I

held
her tight. It's just too bad
that

she's
just an inflatable doll.

Bio:
Mike Berger

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