The HyperTexts

Laura Heidy



Laura Heidy has won several dozen awards in various writing contests. Her work has appeared in Susquehanna Quarterly, Sol Magazine, Poets Against the War, Solares Hill and Mind Caviar Poetry. She has worked as a medic in various places, including a sometimes-simultaneous stint of eight years in a fire department and twelve in the emergency room of a large hospital. The mother of three flown-the-coop boys--the last only lately departed--she, in her new-found, hard-won freedom, abruptly quit her job and moved half-way across the country from Indiana to Arlington, Virginia. The only things she took with her "besides her clothes" were her "computer, two pillows, and a long-suffering bird." She now lives with fellow poet Dan Halberstein.



Perennial Me

Plant
no rose
bush graveside.
Leave no lilies
wrapped in baby's breath.
Save your sad hyacinths.
The final garden grows wild.
Find me where roadside daisies dance
in tandem with the West wind blowing.
Let me be elemental memory.

Published in Sol Magazine



The Death of the Infant Sun

Perhaps we women laughed too loud, too long,
or not enough. Perhaps our sins were far
too large for God to overlook. How wrong
the darkness has become -- how midnight-marred
each day begins and ends. There is no joy
in walking half the night -- or counting stars
or dreaming back or looking straight ahead.
There is no daytime ruse we can employ --
no sleight of hand has ever brought the dead
sky back to light, concealed our scars, or paused
the anguish long enough for us to cry.

We women know that we alone have caused
the dark to fall -the light cast from the womb to die.

Published in Susquehanna Quarterly



Vomiting Jonah

from an engraving by Breughel

Come Children, hear the ocean sigh
as seaweed turns to grass --
The rivers all run blood tonight
the water's made of glass.

Come see the soaring snakes and snails,
winged fish in desperate flight --
A silent pair of ragged claws
goes scuttling out of sight.

Come meet the mermaids, pale as sand,
who groom their tails with care,
ignore the crabs and sea-urchins
that dangle from their hair.

Come greet the sailors home from sea,
the hunters, brave and few.
Tonight they'll dine on carrion --
We'll not know who is who.

Come watch the islands disappear
at the turning of the tide.
The world ends in flame or flood --
unless the prophets lied.

Come Children, view the earth's retreat.
Observe the ocean's swell.
The belly of the whale has burst --
Greet Jonah -- back from hell.



Bhauta

There is no safe tomorrow, only fear
which follows night. Anticipation waits
behind the sun, beneath the moon. I hear

the voice of God each time the wind abates --
each time a shadow falls -- each time the rain
revives a drowning ghost, then dissipates

to bonelessness in soft tearstained refrain.
I've been insane. I've been the woman, frail
and wan, with parchment skin. I've been restrained.

I've traced my name in raindrops on the pale
soft flesh of strangers, until God foretold
the danger, and the downpour turned to hail.

I've been afraid. I've watched the storms unfold
around me while my lover's lies grew cold.
I talk to God. He leaves the truth untold.

Published in Sol Magazine



Seeking Definition

You tell me love is more
than moments spent
too artlessly entwined.
You tell me "Love is Fire."
I say that hell is hell
because it's kept
too goddamn hot. 
You tell me hell
does not exist
and pull away in ire.

I tell you "Love is gentle heat -- 
The smallest embers
will survive." 
We agree to disagree 
and love's left undefined.
These, I think
are moments.
You brush the hair
back from my eyes.
We settle back more cautiously
and watch the clock unwind. 



The Coldest Woman

The fallen snow is treacherous,
her trust is her demise.
The sound of infidelity's
the cracking of the ice.

The HyperTexts