Becky Henderson
Bio: Becky Henderson has been deeply involved with the New England poetry scene for the past 10 years. She has been attending the National Poetry Slam since 1996 as photographer for the Worcester team. In 1999, Becky crossed enemy lines and made it onto the Providence Slam Team. Her soon to be released 4th book is entitled: Love Life Ailing. Email: Bex99@aol.com Naugahyde Woman Naugahyde woman with venire exterior, neglected long now with each empty promise and passerby missing the clink cha chink of life. This woman, fingers splayed tentatively, as young lovers thighs, fearful of the world forgetting. She is buying heaven with each nickel, clasping at a salvation outside the revolution within paper skin. She is made of birch, each layer slightly darker than the one shed before. Absolute in youth. Naugahyde woman tears at clothes of clasp and buckles gives piece by piece of herself on swollen knees, in dark doorways. She has sold everything but faith, and begs for the rest. 16 years of this life stretches heaven within arms reach just beyond arthritic hands. She had stood on mason work walls, crossed over passes, always so far away. Never enough nickels to plink chink one way to paradise. And she is tired, so tired. You can hear strong wood standing into light? Naugahyde woman rests at the bottom of father oak and mother spruce. She knows from where she has come, her family resides within these branches. She has been here before, waiting for the rope of generations a noose knot away. Nickels turned into braided fibers, coiled around themselves, looped over branches, shortened just enough and tied off. This birch skin soul painfully slips rope over head, tightens 2000 years of history around stiff neck steps from the chair and kneels to pray * * * * * * * * * * Who to Believe And I don't know who to believe when mother tells you don't give up And Nike wants you to just do it A nickel saved is 5 pennies And 2 + 2 = 5? And I don't know who to believe 50,000 refuges a downed plane Cold war newly thawed, beginning to freeze over again, and with British accents, it all sounds so pleasant and I don't know who to believe. Belief in the eye of the obvious and I can't see it my 3rd eye is swollen shut, and it was all Fun and games until MMMBOP. And I don't know how they did it. A rest stop somewhere in New York State Around the 3 hour mark at 4 am A meeting occurs, 2 police officers, 2 orange clad construction workers and a family of orthodox Jews. The beginning of a poor joke with subtle punch lines and penny squishing souvenirs. And I don't believe I don't believe we've ever met. Shaking hands with farmers standing by the one tree in their fields surrounded by a group of wild turkeys. NEAR THE 8TH WONDER OF THE WORLD Ted's Fireworks shack, hidden behind collapsed silos. DON'T BELIEVE, DON'T BELIEVE I don't believe we could lay next to each other, Safely watching world destroy each other, and not think about touching each other. But of men in uniform And children in refugee. And it all sounded so pleasant A world and coaxial cable away. In the hotel of perpetually late wake up calls, And we overslept And I can't believe we could even close our eyes With the sky lit bright by all the falling debris. The above pieces are owned and copyrighted by Becky Henderson, © 2000.
Reprinted with permission from the author. GotPoetry.com. All rights reserved. This page was created on Sunday, February 13th, 2000.