Karen Greenbaum-Maya, retired clinical psychologist, German major, two-time Pushcart nominee and occasional photographer, no longer lives for Art, but still thinks about it a lot. Poems have appeared recently in Women’s Studies Quarterly, B O D Y, Flutter Poetry Review, and Mobius: A Journal of Social Change. She was featured poet in the August 2013 issue of Unshod Quills. Kattywompus Press publishes her two chapbooks, Burrowing Song, a collection of prose poems, and Eggs Satori. For links to work on-line, go to: www.cloudslikemountains.blogspot.com/.
My Uncle the Perfectionist
Salt falls, veiling his plate. He’s talking about some new movie, but when he shakes that maraca, no one is listening, no one can look away from the shimmer of grains. You want to just chatter over his sound track, you want to ask him Don’t you taste it yet? How would you call it, taste-deaf? tongue-blind? He’s got the Cro-Magnon avalanche, that infamous cliff of a forehead, but he acts like there’s no frontal lobe to fill it. No self-checking, no mending, no amending. He’ll try anything a time or six, burnt child eying the fire. Everyone else sees the whipped cream pie flying, yet another slapstick gag become shtick. His new girlfriend is getting her 7-day chip at AA for the eighth time. He dug a hole to set a trap, and then he fell right in. He never notices the foreshock that has everyone else ducking for cover. He should know by now, but to him everything always tastes the same. Soon he’ll drip tears, contrite all over again, the same damned crime, the same tell-tale flavor. What has been will be.