Douglas Korb

There is a tender nothingness
watching an old woman teeter
through the park. She leans
over the back of her walker,
tramps through the memory
of summer's leaves, slowly
cracking their dried veins

with her crutch. She shrinks
all day, her knowing mixed
with unknowing, examines
footfalls on the sidewalk
as she bends to the asphalt.
People make their mark, then
diminish. There is no right way

to follow her; she walks alone.
Her white hair thins, a distinct
milkweed given to the wind.
When she sits on the strict bench
her back and shoulders bow.
Leeched of bone, she falls
into the crease of a newspaper.

POSSESSION

Some days I offer my seat to a woman,
other days an obese man fills up two.
I get tired, think of my wife—no, I'm lying—

I think of myself thinking about my wife.
Pagans call this moment transference;
The Catholic Church, possession; Me,

loneliness. It's sad to think sometimes
that it's not me resting on top of my wife,
but some other Douglas, and I'm just Mr. Korb,

waking from a dream, showering, eating eggs,
telling the world about the man who sleeps
with my wife. She tells me he can be a real

prick. Denial's with me every day. It's
with you too. You who sits next to me
on the subway, you who stares at the fat man,

you who rests on the pole for safety's sake.
We exit onto the platform. A voice needles
through the speakers, crackles the air: watch

for suspicious persons, unattended luggage.
I'm tired of threats. We walk suspicious.
We move unattended.

SCRATCHING MY SCALP

I'd like to think my going bald
has something to do with strength

or intelligence. Doctors (more like
friends of doctors) tell me too much

testosterone releases the head from
the hair, causes stimulation in the brain.

Scientists predict apes stepped out of
their natural clothes, so they could

sit in cafes and cathedrals, discuss
the motion of planets, drink coffee

by the pound. I read about aliens
in the supermarket check-out line,

studying the peaches I've chosen.
There was a farm girl in Nebraska

who went on record saying "alien sex
was the best sex she ever had." The aliens

were hairless. Did she go with them?
Where am I going next, and why

don't I need hair or skin to help soften
the journey. I'll be stepping out of myself.

Douglas Korb received a B.A. in English Literature from Warren Wilson College and a M.F.A. in Creative Writing from the Bennington College Writing Seminars. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming from RHINO, 5AM, Poet Lore, and Arbutus. He also writes book reviews for Growler and Talisman magazines. He recently moved to Brattleboro, VT.

"Out Will Return"

Jennifer Balkan

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