Selected Work

          by Ismael Ricardo Archbold










          Who Does She Hope To Be?


          She looks for a family in mirrors, haircuts,
          in grains of salt; belly doubles as aesthetic
          distance, marriage broker --
          pregnancy can end smoking, drinking, giving
          herself away to the night's prizefighter.
          "Once ya hit bottom . . . there's only up," they say
          but can't she see that once she pops up in China,
          there's sky, then space?
          It's a long way to the night's cratered pendulum,
          whose gravity shall surely fling her careering
          towards the edges, hope like quasars,
          tremendously bright, plausible, true as myth:
          out there must be a watchful eye, a dash
          of nebulous reward for braving extremes,
          second grace perhaps, interception of an answered prayer.
          Each gasp held in passing ecstasy,
          every painted shiver of the act,
          libido graving placebo into the interstice;
          these scenes give way to greater interregnums:
          couriers mistaken for knights, love for a midwife,
          all the mechanics of despair a calculus for conception.
          In the tow of her best intentions,
          her Grecian urn of a body, like plunder in hard times,
          bears the burden of function, of underlying purpose,
          intrinsic value realized in form if not in appearances;
          takers come and go, the auction in her eyes
          without reserve.


          2 February MMIV



          I sit at the counter
          in the Hudson
          Diner off Barrow.
          Red and white
          checkered tablecloth
          in the booth
          marked "Four guests
          or more only."
          The ear-mouth piece with
          the gay Latino jars
          about the Greek
          waitress and the old
          man in the corner
          booth. I want
          to punch him
          in the mouth.
          He complains to his
          phone about an erro-
          neous ambulance bill.
          The chicken pot pie
          has green beans, tastes
          like paper. I'd kill
          for his steak & eggs
          which he moans
          isn't London broil.
          He tries to talk
          to me as I try to ignore
          him. He came
          to this country to find
          a place to park,
          a home to settle
          into habits, and found
          the shiny things
          he expected
          and the anchors
          that come with them.
          And I've always been
          stuck here, pissing in
          the wind.


          Ismael Ricardo Archbold resides and works in Austin TX. A graduate of the University of Chicago and the Bennington Writing Seminars, he maintains a blog, Guide for the Careering and plays in the band "Coma in Algiers" . (February 2007)


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