Poems by Jane Rosenberg LaForge
Weeds, A Childhood at the Center of the Universe
Weeds
Weeds newly made
plentiful and clamoring
about the corner of cement
collapsing into pre-soils,
pebbles sacked by weathering,
as sections of sidewalk pull
and twist away as if in
a spasm of resistance:
because where else
could this kind of growth
find comfort and aid
for such a liminal existence.
Perhaps where crossing
the channel by boat is
impossible, and sky is the last
alternative; or where my father
and his father tried to clear
a path among sanctioned
real estate captains but failed
in their demands, foreclosures,
bankruptcies, and ruined
commitments. They were unable
to attract the right pilgrims
to do the hard work for them:
the hands-and-knees,
switchblade and thumb,
the extraction in timing
and excuses. Come on, everyone.
Haven’t you ever flopped
in public? Or were you too proud,
chauvinistic in promenading
along like the thistle and mustards,
bitter but in a rough peace over
when to strike, how deep to burrow,
because shade eventually comes
on every clock, and blame
is another kind of blossom.
A Childhood at the Center of the Universe
In dust, a collision of temperature
and particles; between blades
of the grass and weeds, tinctured
by heat; beside the snakes dying
of thirst, and trees revealing
their paper skeletons, their tongues
as leaves: we waited. We waited
with our souls flammable though
nascent, invitations to simmering
anarchy. We waited for air to spangle
with jasmine and mustard; for solar
flares to make themselves known;
for flood waters to tear into the sides
of mountains; to rise above hubcaps
of traffic passing through the final
intersection before the schoolyard;
water that sprayed like fountains
and firecrackers. We waited for the big kids
to clear out so they wouldn’t make us pull
down our pants, eat mud Popsicles,
pinch our skin until it resembled
the clutch of aerosols in sunsets.
We played with metal shavings
as if they were furry, inferior,
creatures; we played with magnets.
Someday, the adults promised,
the skies would be calmed of their
scents and colors, we’d be the big
kids, and the war would be finished.
We children would do it. We could
change the world, change anything
—except our mothers.
They never change. Our fathers
would change on their own, discover
leather and helmets, or motorcycles
and helicopters; they’d learn how to
adjust their perspective to one at
the bottom of ditches, or from
the flatlands of the basin that held
us as a monarch beholds his mace
and subjects; as if we were the nucleus
from which a faraway power drew
its fuel and firelight, and their
relay stations were mounted
on Mercury and Venus.
Jane Rosenberg LaForge writes poetry, fiction, and occasional essays in New York. She is the author of seven volumes of poetry--four chapbooks and three full-length collections--two novels, and a memoir. Her newest poetry collection is MEDUSA'S DAUGHTER from Animal Heart Press; her most recent novel is SISTERHOOD OF THE INFAMOUS from New Meridian Arts Press. Her 2018 novel, THE HAWKMAN: A FAIRY TALE OF THE GREAT WAR, was a finalist in two categories in the Eric Hoffer awards. She reads poetry for COUNTERCLOCK literary magazine and reviews books for AMERICAN BOOK REVIEW.