GRANDMA'S TOUCH
It
is the summer of 1950 and Montana swelters.
I'm going to my grandma's house in Cascade for the afternoon. Grandpa is working at the Mountain Palace
Tavern, a roadside bar they own on a site next to the Missouri River. Dad, the designated driver, drops me
off. For most of the morning, grandma's
been playing solitaire, her favorite card game.
Immediately after I arrive, she gets me a glass of refrigerated milk and
a plate of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. Almost as if on cue, I pull up my shirt. Then she tenderly rubs and scratches my back,
for what seems like hours. Is this what
heaven feels like? I ask. Grandma's
touch is delicate like love in its infantile stages. She moves her hands slowly and lightly up and
down and I can feel a tingling sensation, feel myself coming out of my skin,
feel myself hearing the muted murmur of a five-year-old boy in ecstasy. Now
years later, I realize grandma taught me that sensitivity takes many forms,
that touching another person lovingly is one of the most compassionate ways to
communicate. And when grandma hugged me,
she held me like I was her own son. From
her I learned the sensual art of touching.
From her I learned about affection, tenderness and love.
MADAME
TOLAVE'S DAUGHTERS
All of
Paris anxiously await Madame Tolave's daughters to wed. They are prizes, catches of the day:
beautiful, educated, wealthy, refined.
It is no secret that suitors from as far as Australia and Argentina have
bid for their hands. Today though, as if
the whole world has been invited along to accompany them, the daughters play
the ponies at the racetrack, betting father's francs on tips from their
favorite bookie. To honor the crowd,
they attend the ceremonies at the Winner's Circle. Cameras flash in unison as each daughter
poses with the winning jockey, kissing him on the cheek. Everyone roars in approval. For the winners who bet on the long shot, the
seventh race is their Shangri-La. A 33
to 1 outsider wins by a nose. Madame
Tolave's daughters, however, lose enough of papa's money on this race alone to
pay the staff at each of their chateaus for the next year and a half. To these three beautiful women living outside
the rules of the game mother has invented, they will attend the opera tonight,
descend gracefully from the Grand Staircase with all eyes focused on them, and
venture elegantly out into The City, the cradle of Paris, to the underworld
where the great masked ball continues.
THE VETERAN
That spring in 68, he was wounded
in the leg during the Tet Offensive,
severing an artery,
almost died.
Thirty-three years later,
he walks with a cane,
suffers flashbacks, nightmares.
Now, a week after the September 11th
attack,
he walks his dog in Lower Manhattan.
An enraged assailant confronts him.
Claims he’s a patriot.
Stabs him repeatedly in the hands and arms,
yells “Yah fuckin’ raghead. You’re goin’ to Allah.”
Months later, his wounds healing slowly,
the new war brought violently home to him,
he walks his old friend again in the early evening,
carries a Colt .45, extra clips,
his anger hot, his hatred
as strong as a undetonated bomb in his heart.
Victor Henry's work has appeared in Dead Snakes, various anthologies, and small press magazines.
Great poem.
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