Two
poems from Martha Greenwald's Other Prohibited Items
followed
by a note on the author
Other
Prohibited Items
"
. . . try not to over-think these guidelines."
– Southwest.com Carry-on Tips
No
to his bassoon. No to their cricket bat.
No to your robot, her corkscrew, that
hatchet.
Good traveler, whose children might be overjoyed –
Next
trip, please procure toys that resemble toys.
Policy does not ban pink princess/pirate
swords
But for security, we confiscate all backstories
(Though
adaptations are few). Item: one wrench
From a beloved uncle's workbench, pilfered
After
his funeral, just before the flight. Lost thanks
For
his kindnesses, the raucous Christmas pranks –
Although
he taught his nephew the lathe, relinquish
The memento at our checkpoint. Item:
rose oil,
Decanted
by monks, four ounces in a faceted flacon.
Rare, the passenger whispers, hushed,
as if pleading
To the lover for whom the secret gift was intended.
Well,
her kiss may be sublime but no to the perfume's
Ounce of excess; and no to
the antique drawknife,
Despite its moonstone handle, studded with marcasite.
Again,
mid-shift, a woman about to board a red-eye
Puts her Ziploc on the x-ray conveyor,
then flusters
When we screen the bag's contents. The bottles warm
Our
gloved hands. Milk rivulets dampen our sleeves.
However, her infant waits at
the destination, so toss
Her bottles to the take-bin, foremilk already separating
From
hindmilk. No to her umbrella, unruly & floral.
Sorry-storm phobias never
justify hollow finials.
No exceptions for the sentimental or exceptional.
Our
take-bins swell with keepsakes decades misplaced,
With longings for the heft
of a snowglobe balanced
On a small palm. Look inside-old Snow White
Sleeps
in a dubious solution. No to her domed sky's
Blizzard. No to the castle, no
to apples. Witches lurk
In these woods, and every poisoned pie is gooseberry.
The
Last Secretary
This morning, in the ladies room mirror,
She realizes her blouse is message-pad
pink.
Her
whole torso contains choices waiting
To be checked-off and dispensed with down
the hall . . .
While
You Were Out, sickened by the foul air,
What happened? Three calls, four faxes,
then
The
computer chimes its happy middle C –
New
mail. Another and another chain letter:
"Forward
this message ten times to find lost loves,
Twenty, and golden fortune will
fly into your lap."
Bad
luck befalls those who do not participate.
Remember the legendary examples
who declined,
Deleted
their letters, then died within weeks –
Miss
X from Texas, blackened in a fiery wreck;
Janine
H, the beautiful, midwestern receptionist,
Drowned on her honeymoon by a mad
gondolier.
Who
needs uninvited foreboding stapled to the day,
The dread of going home to what
was your home,
When
instead, by playing along, the power
Of the unsent might retreat at least until
noon.
Downstairs,
women leave, wrapped in long wool coats.
My dear, what did happen while you
were out?
Lunch
is crackers, a freeze-dried cup of soup.
The peas and carrots bloom in the
boiling water.
©
Martha
Greenwald was born in Red Bank, New Jersey and earned her BA from Brandeis University,
MA from Iowa State, and held a Wallace Stegner Creative Writing Fellowship at
Stanford University. She lives in Louisville, Kentucky, where she is a lecturer
in creative writing at the University of Louisville. Greenwald's poems have appeared
in Best New Poets 2008, Slate, Poetry, the Threepenny
Review, the Sycamore Review, the New England Review, Dogwood,
and elsewhere. She has held fellowships sponsored by the North Carolina Arts Council
and the Kentucky Arts Council.
"Other
Prohibited Items" first appeared in Best New Poets 2008; "The
Last Secretary" first appeared in Slate.
