Megan Webster, Poet

Seven Poems by Megan Webster

Anatomy Lesson

Savoring the last mouthful of chicken soup,
I switch on the news channel

and find Ethiopian mothers blowing across the desert
in search of feeding centers,
their feet lost in dust, babies pouched in shawls,
children strung to one hand,
a bundled donkey roped to the other.

Inside one center, a mother holds up the frame of her son—
holds him as if she were an anatomy teacher.

I identify the twelve bowed ribs,
radius dangling from the humerus,
tibia below the long femur, pelvic ridge.

I see the mandible part from the maxilla,
the eyes retreat into their sockets.

I want the world to see, she cries—

then slowly lays her son on a rag.
Her daughter lies beneath a mound of powdered earth outside.
She waits.

I switch off the news channel—
spit out the soup.

Adoption Parties

They swagger across the TV screen—
kids between 3 and 18;
sway along catwalks
like pros at a premier show.

A six-year-old swirls
her Disney skirt
for a woman in cerulean blue,
pauses to capture her eye.

A youth in string tie
wipes his face of anger,
twists his lips to a grin.

A tot in pink tutu skips to a stop,
stares at the crowd like a doe
caught in a hunter’s lamp.

Shelter children marketing their wares
in choreographed gig
beneath garlands of balloons,
bracing for another rejection.

Prospective parents scribbling
each child’s traits
on notepads in search
of the perfect match.

At the Time

I thought far far better had he
died in middle age as death brings
closure
bereavement
a natural wound time heals

my sons would sort his clothes for charity
find a lamb's wool sweater hand-knitted
gray tweed coat
black leather jacket webbing around
the sleeves
step inside their dad
smell the sweat of his toil
find comfort in its warmth

my daughter would leaf through his books
meet his gods and mentors
Mies Gropius Soleri Corbusier Wright
she'd wield his tennis racket
with angry hands
slam her grief across the court

I'd dig out our wedding picture
buried in the photo drawer

gaze at it in reflective light
have it enlarged
framed in white pine
his favorite wood
place it on the rose mantel

we'd reminisce
recall his acid wit
laugh again
get on with our lives
stronger for the loss but it was
the family that died
fruit of quarter century wedlock
when on his journey west
he discovered virgin territory
staked his claim
and stayed.

Rising to the Occasion

Raquel Welch is my kind
of woman he says, dropping
his boxer shorts

on the hardwood floor.
He extols this bombshell—
says even now she’s old,

she still has
the greatest tits and ass;
and I, his significant other

of one whole decade,
tits the size of ping pong balls,
ass half the size of a football,

lie on my queen bed
digesting the truth:
the boobs he kneads,

the rump he grips
are not mine. Well,
two can play at this game.

My eyes fly around Hollywood
like Nemesis, searching
for the sexiest hulk to clutch

while he rides Raquel . . .
and filled with Benicio Del Toro,
I smile up at him, sated.

Eruption

Who would have thought he’d be
like a sick son I’d never turn my back on,
whose every whim I’d jump to please,
whose ground I’d tread like glass

for fear of blame, because before his highs
and crashing lows we’d been an item.
I always kept my cool until that concert,
the one I took him to as a Christmas treat

and he bugged me all the way there
and back: my too-low voice, unclear map
dirty windshield, jerky driving.
Suddenly I braked, flipped out

of the driver’s seat, yelled get out
and beat him with my fists,
spat in his face and screamed
you inconsiderate beast when I’ve always

put you and your illness first
and on and on until my voice ran out,
body quaked, head spun to starry dark.
He caught me before I hit

the ground. Above the hooves
of my heart, I heard his distant sorry sorry sorry
as if he’d just then got it,
but all his sorries rolled off the edge

of my rage. I’d flipped
and nothing could ever be the same.

Visitation
Careful what you wish for

Shadows whistle,
voices shudder beyond the blind,
halos hover above the bed:
the dead struggling to reconnect
I whisper to the dark.
Oh to see their faces,
hear their tales of hidden spheres!
I poke the silence, picture Father
who died the day I turned six,
Mother, whose end I missed
because a flight delayed,
my brother, reaped at one,
& press my plea into the night:

appear appear appear

I repeat like a child
learning a nursery rhyme.

Like a ship’s bow steaming
out of polar fog, a phantom sails
through the ivory wall of my room.
I catch the bleached face,
lilac blossoms on cotton frock,
crinkled Parkinson hands,
two wedding bands—

Mother, you’ve come back, I gasp.
The phantom floats to my side,
bends as if to embrace, but instead,
flings back the covers, rolls on top of me,
wraps my mouth with cobalt lips,
latches my breasts, belly, thighs,
like a limpet on ocean stone;
then in one gustful scoop sucks
me into its womb & vanishes—
leaving my skull naked,
my body hollow as a scorched canoe,
my voice shrieking.

Bathroom Companion
for Risa

I didn’t mean to disturb the spider squatting
in the corner outside my tub
but he’d been there forever & should’ve known
I shower at seven & kept away

from trouble—but there he was,
spread across his web as if he owned
the place & being in a hurry, I didn’t see him

until it was too late. Each time I sat on the toilet,
he was the first thing I saw

& I always asked how his web was doing,

as I hadn’t seen a fly since summer
& his net was always empty. I began to worry

about his wellbeing, so when cleaning
the linoleum floor, working carefully around
his web, I’d peer into his eyes for signs of malnutrition,

but with eyes the size of pinheads, I found it hard
to tell. Now I’m wondering if by chance he bequeathed
his corner to a mate or son . . . as without a spider,
the bathroom surely is a creepy place.

Anatomy Lesson was first published in Red River Review in November 2001, it later won a 3rd prize at the Artists Embassy International Dancing Poetry Contest in July 2002.

Adoption Parties received an honorable mention in the California Federation of Chaparral Poets Contest in March 2002.

At The Time was published in Sheila-Na-Gig #14 in 2000.

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