Merry Gangemi is a writer, activist, editor, and the producer and host of Woman-Stirred Radio. She earned her BA from New York University, and an MA in comparative Literature from San Francisco State University. She is currently working towards her MFA at Vermont College of Fine Arts, in both poetry and fiction.
Her short fiction and poetry can be found in Chroma, MatriFocus, Wisconsin Review, River Oak Review, Paterson Literary Review, Journal of New Jersey Poets, Sinister Wisdom, Harrington Lesbian Fiction Quarterly, Harrington Lesbian Literary Quarterly, Off Our Backs, and Street Spirit.
October 24, 2005
Foreboding
Leaving your father was something I never regretted.
But the custody battle was like crossing a river in a battered rowboat,
oars too short, no life preserver, no compass.
Caught between the footfalls of my choices
confused by how mercilessly friends and family turned
I could barely shield you from all that fury
or bottle the kindness of the babysitter,
who let me visit you once a week.
I was slow to forgive myself for living the life I dared to live.
But memories can be blatant or sly
oblivious to ideal or motive, they drive the difference
between intent and innocence.
And now, you are twenty-five,
my age when you were born.
You live and work in New York.
Walk past buildings I worked in,
coffee shops where I grabbed a cup,
a bagel, or a cold bran muffin.
I follow you like a ghost, amazed at your confidence
fascinated by your independence
and the stunning green flecks in your eyes.
But your pace changes when you reach Church Street.
You preceive some shadows and a faint keening
in the wind off the Hudson.
You remember what you saw, over and over again.
The split visage of memory, when I took you up there
and we saw the world stretched out below us,
the startling blue river, the simple green of Ellis Island.
Ghosts of 9/11
scars of those who ran fast enough
are etched in your memory forever.
Run, I want to shout to you...
Run away and swim that river.
Follow it to the sea.
Surf the waves just like I taught you.
Read the books I gave you.
Tell the truth.
So if they come for you
one day or any day,
you will understand you have lived
the life you dared to live.
August 26, 2005
Holy Man
You are seen
slinking into churches
shaking hands with the faithful,
passing white envelopes to the deacon,
the hoped-for champion
of the cathedral choir.
On Sunday afternoons
you sit at some parishioner's table,
hands in your lap,
counting,
while outside,
huddled under tattered umbrellas,
God is waiting.
August 25, 2005
Surfer Girls
Six a.m. pebble against the window
roseola clouds, first shock
of cold we hit the water
sun bleeding gold
You sliced those waves
focused, lithe, and free,
unlike me, afraid of heights
rigid on my board
waiting for a manageable challenge.
Late August evenings after
a swelling Nor'easter, we'd sit out there
surrounded by waves
roused like maddened cattle
spray shattering
around us.
Twenty years later
halfway to San Francisco
I am slouching in a motel room chair
smoking a cigarette in the dark
out of context, stiff with dread
at the thought of seeing you again.
I still remember that morning
toweling off in the outdoor shower
cicadas tsking in the heat,
you said: Funny
You don't smell like a guinea.
Just like that. And then you laughed.
You didn't notice how I froze or how loud
the dripping water slapped against the floorboards.
Twenty years later, landlocked and lonely
the interstate swarming outside
I finally understand why it's impossible to see you again.
You never could have known
how I smelled or how I felt.
We never touched or kissed,
never whispered secrets
or held each other in the dark.
I had only watched
the wondrous mirage of you
slicing the face of a perfect wave.
Dance me
Shortly after you left
the Berlin Wall crumbled
I went out with women
who taught me how to dance
Very early one cold morning
I stood outside with a friend
The air pulsing
a moon slung low in the frigid sky
She showed me the key
to her new apartment
shining like a jewel
in the palm of her hand.
On the Docks of Mar del Plata
Red, blue,
Yellow-hulled boats
Snakes of thick rope.
A fisherman,
pipe clenched in his teeth
offers a dripping conch,
life scraped away
From its massive shell.
We could have been endless.
An intoxicating toss of the wave's mane,
The mystery of salt
Speckled, wet heat
Where we touched.
Vignette
When she told you
you closed your eyes
sighed, and arched your back
as far as possible…
The rolling
glycine tube of a wave
distracted her.
You dissolved.
Post and Read Comments (0)August 24, 2005
Coward
There was no other way to leave.
I fled from your car at the terminal door.
Eventually reassured by raging engines
bearing me aloft, over mounds of words
rotting in the August fog.
Post and Read Comments (0)August 17, 2005
After Eleven States Passed Anti-gay Legislation
I don't know if they would answer the phone
or stop to give me a ride.
I don't know what they would do
if I had to hide.
We live in the same community
go to potlucks and demonstrations
volunteer for projects
send money to good causes.
But I am uncertain and somewhat frightened
about how easily people forget.
I don’t know what they would do
if the authorities came looking for me.
Mauve Ghosts
Last September
Mauve ghosts crept into our barn.
They eat and drink nothing
But they love to sleep on the hay
Draped elegantly over fresh cut bales
We decided to leave them alone.
Post and Read Comments (0) | TrackBack (36)July 20, 2005
Desire
She was
Big
Dense
Powerful.
I succumbed
To my need.
Everything
Could have been
Perfect.
Post and Read Comments (0)July 19, 2005
The Sound of Gathering Density
Vermilion-brushed wind
delirious taste
spilling onto my tongue--
your ocean salt-sweet.
I have rowed across rivers
slept in cold sand
waited--
for the moon
to rise.
Round I am, belly full,
creation ready for the flood.
Sun-ripened peach, tart lemonade,
burst of fig--
quenched.
We drift into sounds
of leaping flames
succulent gurgles
of water raining
of winds flying
of night falling--
That sound
of gathering density
Amputation
They killed me because I looked at her.
My eyes were thrown to a blind prisoner
Serving time for fraud.
I was buried; she was paroled
Living
Seeing through my dead eyes.
Post and Read Comments (0)July 09, 2005
After Running Hard Off the Edge of the City
Four hundred miles
South of where we used to live
I survey this landscape
An unforgiving stretch of beach
I run every day
Out of fear and obligation.
Lines of blistering clouds
Sweep west over the dunes
Hulking, squealing gulls
Fight to penetrate
Heavy, wet wind.
Most mornings along this coast
Breath melts into fog.
Cynical pelicans glissade and
Breakers reach to maul
Their flaccid pouches.
After New York, I lied again.
Blurted the thing without thought
or pretense. Habitual, you told me.
Inevitable, I thought,
Determined. Eyes closed, head down
Arm raised to ward off your words
My pride was the harbinger of
Every frenetic rhythm
I continue to dance
To spare myself—
Imposed to distance myself
From languages I have learned.
Under this relentless sky
Swollen with autumn
I run parallel to the consequences
Of muscle, heart, and conceit.
Inexplicable impulses of an atavistic performance
A memorial to defeat
Uncensored and fragile
Filled with the wailing
Of the rising tide.
Sunday Morning before the War
Butch milk sweet as mine
Sure of its lean protein
Tender spilling.
Turn slowly, take yourself back
You have soothed me.
I am sleepy, full, and blessed.
June 28, 2005
Karl Rove Is Not a Genius
But some say
he is brilliant
A strategist who
can tick off
all the stats
dirty trick after dirty trick
elections
ripe in his mouth
like mealy fruit.
But
a genius?
Maybe.
They say
Hitler was,
Stalin was
But, Karl is more
like Creon, who thought
he could trump the gods
until Teiresias
said: uh oh
and told him the real deal.
Yes,
Karl Rove might
be a genius
Dirty trick
after dirty trick
Dubya’s bland round Svengali
But maybe
he is a genus
A category
of biological classification
ranking between
family and species
Exhibiting unusual
differentiation.
A capitalized, singular noun.
June 10, 2005
Isaac and Jesus
Bewildered apostles crawled from that table
And tried to escape his
Soon-to-be Sacrifice
for the love of all men.
But Jesus confounded all their claims
to His Soul,
Piecemeal,
with brilliant piety.
Confiteor aside, they were nervous
Somewhat inhibited. But, oh! That Jesus!
In the end, he put it all together
Station by station
The two most important Marys
Weeping at his feet.
But remember Isaac'
Poster-boy for history’s almost-child-sacrifice
Saved from his Daddy by a disembodied voice.
Isaac trussed like a goat;
Terror-spewed vomit
All over that cold stone;
No Marys to clean his face.
The following Wednesday
Abe mentioned it to Sarah
Casually, after dinner,
Shards of green lentils in his teeth.
Her baby, her Isaac
Stuttered uncontrollably
For the rest of his life.
Obedient and beloved;
A herdsman, like his father
He slaughtered lambs and sired many sons.
And Jesus'
He came back
Like Swartzennegar;
Hasta leugo, he said.
And all those hungry disciples
Came back too.
They founded a church.
Made the Marys “special girls,”
Slaughtered millions
And sired many sons.