Three Uses of Chopsticks from Hilo Rains By Juliet S. Kono (Lee) I.

1. Cut  What a thrill -My thumb instead of an onion.The top quite goneExcept for a sort of hingeOf skin,A flap like a hat,Dead white.Then that red plush.Little pilgrim,The Indian's axed your scalp.Your turkey wattleCarpet rollsStraight from the heart.I step on it,Clutching my bottleOf pink fizz. A celebration, this is.Out of a gapA million soldiers run,Redcoats, every one. Whose side are they one?O myHomunculus, I am ill.I have taken a pill to killThe thinPapery feeling.Saboteur,Kamikaze man -The stain on yourKu Klux KlanBabushkaDarkens and tarnishes and whenThe balledPulp of your heartConfronts its smallMill of silenceHow you jump -Trepanned veteran,Dirty girl,Thumb stump. Sylvia Plath

2. Three Uses of Chopsticks from Hilo Rains By Juliet S. Kono (Lee) I. She drops her head between her knees. Her long black hair flows over. She gathers the strands, flips up her head and twists her hair into a silken bun. She takes a pair of chopsticks, sticks them into her hair to hold it up; together with an orchid, chopsticks make a practical decoration. The nape of her neck is exposed tempting him to touch it. At the right moment tonight she will pull out the chopsticks like a knife and drop her hair for the kill. II. Teeth-chipped red lacquer chopsticks with wood exposed like flesh. She saves the old ones for him. He uses the chopsticks to prop orchid plants heavy with flowers. From her window, she watches him stab into the cinder at the base of the plants. He is careful of the aerial roots-- blue-green veins more familiar now than veins on her breasts that he once tracked after parting her long, graying hair fallen across her chest. She notices he binds chopsticks and stalks with soft wire in an unlikely embrace, preventing winds from toppling and crushing the plants.

3. III. She walks down the path like a bride--white orchids fluttering like butterflies in her hands-- to where he waits for her. She loops white hair straggling from her bun over an ear as she walks. Fronting the small stoop near gas burners, she bows, draws a pair of long steel chopsticks from their case.  She picks up the char-free bones left among the ashes: fragments of hip bones, pieces of skull, parts of teeth. She drops them into an urn. She then ties a black cloth around the copper box, sticks flowers into the square knot, and folds her arms around him and orchids.

4. So, she was come through wind and rain. Be sure I looked up at her eyesHappy and proud; at last l knew Porphyria worshiped me: surpriseMade my heart swell, and still it grew While I debated what to do.That moment she was mine, mine, fair,Perfectly pure and good: I foundA thing to do, and all her hairIn one long yellow string l wound Three times her little throat around,And strangled her. No pain felt she;I am quite sure she felt no pain. As a shut bud that holds a bee,I warily oped her lids: again Laughed the blue eyes without a stain.And l untightened next the tress About her neck; her cheek once moreBlushed bright beneath my burning kiss: I propped her head up as before, Only, this time my shoulder boreHer head, which droops upon it still: The smiling rosy little head,So glad it has its utmost will, That all it scorned at once is fled, And I, its love, am gained instead!Porphyria's love: she guessed not how Her darling one wish would be heard.And thus we sit together now, And all night long we have not stirred,And yet God has not said a word! Porphyria’s Lover (Robert Browning) The rain set early in tonight,The sullen wind was soon awake, It tore the elm-tops down for spite,And did its worst to vex the lake: I listened with heart fit to break.When glided in Porphyria; straight She shut the cold out and the storm,And kneeled and made the cheerless grate Blaze up, and all the cottage warm; Which done, she rose, and from her formWithdrew the dripping cloak and shawl, And laid her soiled gloves by, untiedHer hat and let the damp hair fall, And, last, she sat down by my side And called me. When no voice replied,She put my arm about her waist,And made her smooth white shoulder bare, And all her yellow hair displaced,And, stooping, made my cheek lie there, And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair,Murmuring how she loved me — she Too weak, for all her heart's endeavor,To set its struggling passion free From pride, and vainer ties dissever, And give herself to me forever.But passion sometimes would prevail, Nor could tonight's gay feast restrainA sudden thought of one so pale For love of her, and all in vain:

5. "Needs" A. R. Ammons I want something suited to my special needs I want chrome hubcaps, pin-on attachments and year round use year after year I want a workhorse with smooth uniform cut, dozer blade and snow blade & deluxe steering wheel I want something to mow, throw snow, tow and sow with I want precision reel blades I want a console styled dashboard I want an easy spintype recoil starter I want combination bevel and spur gears, 14 gauge stamped steel housing and washable foam element air cleaner I want a pivoting front axle and extrawide turf tires I want an inch of foam rubber inside a vinyl covering and especially if it's not too much, if I can deserve it, even if I can't pay for it I want to mow while riding.

6. Barbie Doll  This girlchild was born as usualand presented dolls that did pee-peeand miniature GE stoves and ironsand wee lipsticks the color of cherry candy.Then in the magic of puberty, a classmate said:You have a great big nose and fat legs. She was healthy, tested intelligent,possessed strong arms and back,abundant sexual drive and manual dexterity.She went to and fro apologizing.Everyone saw a fat nose on thick legs. She was advised to play coy,exhorted to come on hearty,exercise, diet, smile and wheedle.Her good nature wore outlike a fan belt.So she cut off her nose and her legsand offered them up. In the casket displayed on satin she laywith the undertaker's cosmetics painted on,a turned-up putty nose,dressed in a pink and white nightie.Doesn't she look pretty? everyone said.Consummation at last.To every woman a happy ending.

7. WoodchucksGassing the woodchucks didn't turn out right.The knockout bomb from the Feed and Grain Exchangewas featured as merciful, quick at the boneand the case we had against them was airtight,both exits shoehorned shut with puddingstone,but they had a sub-sub-basement out of range.Next morning they turned up again, no worsefor the cyanide than we for our cigarettesand state-store Scotch, all of us up to scratch.They brought down the marigolds as a matter of courseand then took over the vegetable patchnipping the broccoli shoots, beheading the carrots.The food from our mouths, I said, righteously thrillingto the feel of the .22, the bullets' neat noses.I, a lapsed pacifist fallen from gracepuffed with Darwinian pieties for killing,now drew a bead on the little woodchuck's face.He died down in the everbearing roses.Ten minutes later I dropped the mother.Sheflipflopped in the air and fell, her needle teethstill hooked in a leaf of early Swiss chard.Another baby next.O one-two-threethe murderer inside me rose up hard,the hawkeye killer came on stage forthwith. There's one chuck left. Old wily fellow, he keepsme cocked and ready day after day after day.All night I hunt his humped-up form. I dreamI sight along the barrel in my sleep.If only they'd all consented to die unseengassed underground the quiet Nazi way. Maxine Kumin