Beautiful Words

    Methamphetamine and prosperity are beautiful words,
    never mind how they pitch their players outside the realms of most.
    The lingual root of speed is oldĖEnglish, High German, LatinĖ
    prosperity, hope, space. My next-door friendís mother took the drug
    to lose weight and then left Susan to watch over the little
    ones while she met that stuporous space that suspended hope and
    hate. My friend was seven. She grew up fast.


    Where there is no dock, no boat, no blizzard, just sun
    haunting the body of water, I heard him. Thatís how you see it.

    No sound like the answer that does not give.

    Cows and whales have the same rib cages, shelters for similar
    hearts. And driving the Pacific Coast Highway, I saw the
    reminder with cows in the field, blue beyond. It seems we are

    close. But canít hear the words heíd rather not say. Canít see,
    canít feel, canít smell, canít taste the same meal. No dock,
    no boat, no blizzard, just sun haunting the body blue.

    Give me some salt to water my mouth. Iím feeling extinct.

    Bio Note
      Amy Holman writes poetry, fiction, book reviews and essays on publishing issues. Her poetry collection, Vanishing Twin, is due in autumn 2002 from Mitki/Mitki Press, and poems have been published in Poet Lore, Van Gogh's Ear, CrossConnect, Literal Latte, Failbetter, nominated for a Pushcart and selected for the Best American Poetry. She has fiction forthcoming in SHADE and Night Train, and is a contributor to the forthcoming writing guide, Pitch Craft. She directs The Publishing Seminars program at Poets & Writers, Inc., and teaches at other literary centers and writers conferences, including Hudson Valley Writers Center and Bread Loaf Writers Conference.