Steven Rood D on Giovanni On Earth A woman comes up to me on the street, smiling. "How are you?" I ask. "Starving," she says. Well then, we are both starving, I think. And how about these people on Broadway? Some are starving more, and to them we should give change. For the others, the young with their beautiful skin, we should take the phones gently away from their ears. I am thinking of Jean, who was robust and hairy two months ago. Today he is nearly dead, bald and small as a vulture. It crosses my mind to dye my hair, or flirt. Or starve and exercise. Or touch my son's hair. When I finish this poem, I still won't believe I'll die. But at the end of it, I may think how a really lovely make-out session with someone I'm not supposed to do that with wouldn't be so bad- looking at it from a hospital bed, and laced with morphine. Who are we to starve ourselves? Everything departs as it arrives. Tastes and odors remain. Which become memory, insubstantial and delicious.
Summer • Fall 2006
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