Chrysallis. Jaargang 1981

[p. 81]

Ethel Portnoy
Five poems

Baby

Though lying down
He somehow finds the means
To dance a jig

This Baby

I pick him up, this baby.
Is this happiness really mine?
Or am I a figure in a salle commune,
Mumbling over a rag-doll in my arms?

Seen in a book: the Fuzzy Baby

Looks like a teddy-bear.
Thrown in a river, where it lay too long,
It grew a coat of algae.

Why am I upset by the Fuzzy Baby?
Is it because all flesh is grass?

No. It is because all flesh is meat.

[p. 82]

Ending

Heredia had three lovely daughters;
One lived to be old and poor.
She perished in a chambre de bonne
After the stove fell over.

At the moment of death,
Only the moment is there,
The terrible moment.

Later

Cremation?
Not for me!
Someday I want to be
The black stripe in that blue iris
(Eye or flower: no matter).