Selected Work

        by Shahe Mankerian











        Sneeze


        After the stewardess handed me
        a tiny bag of party mix,

        I remembered your last comment.
        You said, "I can't find the cashews
        in our relationship."

        I didn't understand then what you meant.

        But today,
        sitting between a fresh-eyed boy,
        staring at the skyline ofManhattan,
        3,000 ft. above,

        and the old King of Mattress sleepy to my left,
        who fools people with his weekly
        liquidation sales,

        I understand.

        the cashew--
        the solitary crescent moon in each bag,
        the ultimate surprise,
        the crunch, the salt, et cetera--

        is the most cliche diamond in disguise;
        it's the leap year, the penny
        between the sidewalk and your car,

        and I forget to reach for it.

        "We're no longer in Pittsburgh,"
        the pilot reminded us hours ago.
        I look at the boy to my right
        and the man to my left.

        I'm stuck in between.

        My eyes are teary, but I'm not sleepy yet.
        The cashew is at the bottom of the bag.
        If I sneeze,
        I might miss it again.

        The Trampling


        In my story,
        the villain carries her
        to the railroad track.

        My mule and I,
        the pretend cavalry,
        barely move.
        The train approaches.
        The steam spews.

        I'm so ill-prepared,
        worried about
        losing daisy,
        losing count-- Ê

        She loves me.
        She loves me not.

        Five petals to go;
        fifty-thousand more
        trailing the tail
        of my dehydrated mule.

        At least Don Quixote
        had the windmills.
        I have flowers
        with half-pulled petals.

        She loves me.
        She loves me not.

        The ground trembles.
        The train whistles.
        He kisses her
        like Bogart kissing Bergman.

        We stop to drink.
        I stare at the ripples of the pool.
        My mule smiles at my reflection.

        She loves me.
        She loves me not.

        My story unfolds twice:

        First,
        the villain kisses her;
        she doesn't scream.
        He kisses her again.
        She moans with pleasure.

        By the time
        I strain my neck,
        she rides into the sunset with him.

        The last petal falls.
        She loves me not.

        Or,
        before a rain cloud blossoms,
        my mule outruns
        the speeding train,

        and before he kisses her,
        he hears the call
        of my bugle, the trampling,
        the quiver of a heart,

        and he runs.

        I pull the last petal,
        O Lord,
        she loves me;
        she loves me.

        Shahe Mankerian At this time, no bio is available.

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