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Alice Anderson


Licking Wounds 

James went first because James went first.  The year I was


and he eight, when we invited all the kids on the block—Linda

          and Lisa,

little Amy, Jenna and Adie and her brother Ludie the snake boy—



to slide on our Slip-n-Slide in the backyard.  James pulled the

orange slip

out of the garage in a wrinkled heap and brought it out back by the

          long, still

fishpond.  The pond where I fed my favorite fish too much and

          he drowned.


Those were the years we still had money, when Mom still carved

          my dresses

out of conspicuous bolts of brushed silk, linen, and furry, beige


James held one end, and Ludie the other, backing away from each

          other, their


long arms outstretched but bent at the elbows as if pulling hot

          cupcake pans

from an oven.  They laid the Slip-n-Slide out across the lawn,

          screwed in

the garden hose to the orange plastic nozzle, and watched as the

          chalky plastic


filled and shone with warm and then cold summer hose water.

          James went first because he always went first—not because he

             was the oldest or

the tallest or the least smart of all the kids.  He went first because

          he liked


the protest, the jerking one-footed whines of girls with smaller

          faces, smaller

voices, and smaller, white thighs.  I was obsessed with germs that


wouldn’t have eaten at all if I had known that to make it, someone,



had to take it into their hands.  The butcher, with slabs of meat

          and bone, wrapping it up

in gleaming, invisible cellophane.  The maid, washing lettuce,

          tearing it to shreds

before washing it again and placing it in a heap in the crisper.  Even

          my mother,


washing the boneless pork under the faucet before dipping it into silt

          white flower,

turning it over, and over, and again, before laying it softly in the

          sizzling copper pan.

At dinner, when no one was watching—no one ever did—James

          would lean over


and let out his long, hot tongue.  He’d lick his lips, my meat, the

          edge of my milk

glass, or the tight, cold corner of my mouth.  So he slid first down

          the Slip-n-Slide.

He backed up to the fence and took off full speed, tight-fisted and

          leaning into his leap,


belly-down, sliding in a jagged, wild line.  And his sudden wailing

          scream seemed

to come from somewhere in his shining, glassy eyes.  It took hours

          for the doctors

to extract the shards of glass from his chest and stomach, his skinny



A broken jar?  Camping lamp?  No one knew.  But when I went,

          finally, to that

tall white bed where he lay for one long afternoon, I let out my

          small, cool tongue

and ran it up his peach-fuzzed arm from wrist to elbow to shoulder



and for one day, I was first, and no one was looking.


The Split


This is how it happens.  You are just out of the shower maybe

in the afternoon when your lover comes up behind you and kisses you


on the shoulder.  You turn, kiss back.  And you even remind yourself,

during that first heavy breath or fall to the bed—I am not


going to close my eyes.  But you cannot help yourself and you

close your eyes, forgetting your promise, and you see him.


A figure, moving form, enormous shadow appearing somewhere

between your eyelids and the air.  There he is above you


and for a moment you are happy about it, amazed to feel again

what it is to be that small.  How exquisite your tiny finger,


how fragile the bones of your wrists.  You see how easily

your thigh fits in a hand, your shin in a mouth, your buttocks


in the crook of a hip—how easy it is then to be filled.

This is real to you: this is what you turn sex into.


You feel your knees pushed open with thick warm thumbs and

you can feel your knees are skinned and then you see them


getting skinned, you see yourself beyond that shadow.

You see your white skates on the drive, the slope of the tar,


and into this vision you escape.  Leave.  Cease to exist.

You are gone from the place of the thin bed and the blue panties


caught around an ankle.  Someone else has taken your place.

You then are on the driveway and your cat is in the flowerbed


and your mother looks out the kitchen window at you in your

good dress which you are not supposed to wear with skates.


You skate in circles and watch the sky, picking shapes

out of clouds—turtle, clipper ship, heart, hand.


Your mother tells you Watch where you are going young lady.

And even before you skin your knees you feel something


slowly rising in your throat, the way the cream lifts every time

from the milk in the glass bottle that arrive on Sundays,


no matter how many times your mother shakes it up for you.

It rises in you like that—thick and lukewarm as your father’s skin.


The taste inches up but you keep skating, try to make the circles

perfect and small, try to smell the beefsteaks on the barbeque


in the side yard where your father calls over the fence

to the neighbor, saying This is the life.  But when you hear


his voice it is enough to send you down.  You fall.

Your knees are skinned and full of rocks but you’re almost


you again, panties wrapped around an ankle, undershirt pushed up.

You hear your breathing and his breathing.  You’re hot.


Your eyes are open again, staring at something they

don’t even see.  And when finally it happens you realize


that it isn’t your father filling you this time, he is

only making you fall. It hits you that you’ve done it again:


this shrinking into someone, then somewhere else.  It is always

the same.  You cannot control it.  You never learned to skate.


You are there in your grown up bed with your lover and you have

just made love and he says Isn’t sex amazing and you say Yes.


-from Human Nature: Poems; "The Split" was recently included in The Courage To Heal,

20th Anniversary Edition




Kim Addonizio 03-14-08


Agha Shahid Ali 09-14-07


Alice Anderson 11-16-08


Renee Ashley 04-10-2010


Christianne Balk 07-27-07


Brian Barker 07-07-07


Polina Barskova 09-13-2010


Bruce Beasley 11-22-08


Nicky Beer 09-06-2010


Nicky Beer 08-22-08


Nathaniel Bellows 04-27-09


Ciaran Berry 01-25-09


Linda Bierds 08-31-07


Kristin Bock 08-17-09


Bruce Bond 02-18-2012


John Bradley 03-12-2012


Brian Brodeur 03-29-09


Michelle Boisseau 09-20-2010 


Sophie Cabot Black 03-26-2012


Anne Caston 09-24-09


Anne Caston 02-27-2011


Elizabeth Biller Chapman 01-25-08


Nicole Cooley 04-05-09


Stephen Cramer 02-14-2011


Nicole Cuddeback 03-07-08


Steve Davenport 03-29-2010


Cortney Davis 05-03-09


Todd Davis 11-01-2010


James Dickey 03-12-2012


Stephen Dobyns 02-26-2012


Elizabeth Dodd 09-05-08


Karen Donovan 04-15-07


Mark Doty 04-11-08


Stephen Dunn 11-09-02010


Lynn Emanuel 08-30-2010


Lynnell Edwards 11-22-2010


B. H. Fairchild  09-04-09


Elyse Fenton 04-25-2011


Nick Flynn 01-28-2012


Nick Flynn 10-04-2010


Rachel Contreni Flynn 04-10-2011


Carolyn Forche 09-21-07


Carrie Fountain 03-21-2011


James Galvin 02-23-07


Margaret Gibson 01-24-10


Mary Jo Firth Gillett 02-22-08


Dana Gioia 08-23-2010


Eugene Gloria 09-20-08


Louise Gluck 03-17-2010


Kevin Goodan 08-29-08


Matthew Graham 11-28-2010


Robert Grunst 11-16-07


Bruce Guernsey 9-13-2011


Elizabeth Hadaway 06-15-07


John Haines 11-01-2011


Donald Hall 02-10-07


Sarah Hannah 11-25-2011


C. G. Hanzlicek 04-23-2012


Jeff Hardin 08-10-07


Elizabeth Haukaas 09-13-2011


Brooks Haxton 03-08-10


Seamus Heaney 09-11-09


Jamey Hecht 12-05-2010


Bob Hicok 10-25-2011



Andrew Hudgins 11-21-09


Lynda Hull 05-20-07


Henry Israeli 01-23-2011


Major Jackson 05-02-2010


Mark Jarman 10-19-08


Rodney Jones 10-26-09


Barbara Jordan 02-02-09


Ilya Kaminsky 11-18-2011


Daniel Khalastchi 8-30-2011


Brigit Pegeen Kelly 10-12-08


Jane Kenyon 04-01-07


Suji Kwock Kim 11-09-2011

 James Kimbrell 04-07-2010

James Kimbrell 01-19-07


Galway Kinnell 11-09-07


Yusef Komunyakaa 07-15-07


Phil Levine 06-03-07


Eleanor Lerman 11-02-08


Larry Levis 04-04-08


Larry Levis 02-08-2010


Lisa Lewis 02-11-2012


Sandy Longhorn 04-26-08


Corey Marks 10-03-07


Adrian Matejka 04-18-08


Davis McCombs 01-18-08


Jeffrey McDaniel 10-08-2011


Michael McGriff 02-22-09


Jay Meek 01-16-2010


Anne Michaels 01-18-09


Nils Michals 02-29-08


Keith Montesano 12-12-2010


Malena Morling 05-12-08


Simone Muench 02-08-08


Sharon Olds 02-22-07


Sharon Olds 10-19-07


Michael Ondaatje 02-01-2010


Eric Pankey 09-07-07


Gregory Pardlo 06-22-07


Ed Pavlic 09-28-07


Oliver de la Paz 02-15-2010


Lucia Perillo 12-04-09


Catherine Pierce 04-18-2011


Jon Pineda 04-09-2012


Donald Platt 02-15-08


Joshua Poteat 03-13-2011


Joshua Poteat 11-3-09


Wyatt Prunty 02-20-2011


Dean Rader 03-07-2011


Amy Randolph 03-01-09


Robert Randolph 12-12-09


Adrienne Rich 04-20-2010


Joshua Robbins 11-16-2010


David Roderick 12-07-07


Bobby C. Rogers 02-04-2012


Pattiann Rogers 3-21-08

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Jim Schley 10-19-09


Tim Seibles 10-08-07


David Shumate 10-26-08


Dave Smith 04-10-09 


Katherine Soniat 01-21-2012


Katherine Soniat 11-30-07


Gary Soto 03-23-07


Mark Sullivan 08-28-09


Mathias Svalina 04-02-2012

Frank Stanford 10-25-2010

Mark Strand 02-22-2010


Mark Svenvold 03-23-09


Robert Thomas 05-03-2011


Brian Turner 05-13-07


Joshua Vinzant 01-30-2011


Tribute to Virginia Tech 04-24-07


Connie Voisine 10-1-2011


Charles Harper Webb 10-12-07


David Wevill 03-27-2011


C.K. Williams 05-25-07


Susan B.A. Somers-Willett 06-29-07


Charles Wright 01-27-07


Robert Wrigley 10-11-2010


Robert Wrigley 08-17-07


Robert Wrigley 04-09-07


Robert Wrigley 02-03-07