Fringe Magazine - Poetry Issue 16

POETRY:
4 Poems
by Francine Rubin

Fish Fry-a-thon

Plangent body
torquing to the left, then
right, an excited shimmy; like a fish
Bea jumps
when Dee pokes her with the spatula

dripping Wesson.
Bea cleans trout, Dee vaunts
a cast iron pan hissing oil. "De-scale
faster, Bea!"
says Dee, hair like seaweed flying.

Outside, in grass
flecked with dandelions
by the side parking lot, is everyone:
even Sharp
wearing a helmet, he says, "to protect

his glabella,"
Pierre who is prepping
for Mr. America, and the three
Norwegian
tourists on their way to Ogonquit.

Hungry, they’ve come
to the Fish Fry-a-thon
to raise funds for Dee's Diner's outstanding
mortgage, gold-
brown sizzling trout sailing onto plates.

In the dining room,
blue floral paper peels
from corners, and hot air blows a polka
through holes scratched
into the back door—Bobby Chipmunk.

Next October,
the Grand Reopening:
seashells paper ironed flat to the walls,
the countertops
upgraded to Magical Lake steel.

They’ll all devour
the Improved Fall Special:
Braised Summer Flounder and Winter Fennel.
Above them,
the ceiling will sag bit by bit.

Pirouette

Legs coiling, four revolutions
on the pointe shoe’s flat end.
Foot arched, spinning, balanced, one
straight, the other alighted,
legs shape a wing,
toe to side of knee, flashing
each direction as it turns. Hips
twist from front to back. Arms
a halo from fingertips to breasts,
shoulders a plane above which
head pulls neck like a bittern
straining for flight, spotting four
times against stage lights
blurring, the sign at theater’s
edge, EXIT. Up. Up.

Performance

I’ll make a fascination of myself.
My fingers flourish, you’ll follow their tornadoes
and whorl into the crevice of my elbow,
gathering equilibrium.

Swing from my shoulder blade
as a rappeller moves from rock to rock,
fall to the curve of my spine,
traipsing my vertebrae.

Sly,
spiral down my thigh, calf,
and ankle bone. Slipping over
the bridge of my arch, landing
below my ascendant form,

you’re in relief.

K-Feddish
January 2007
Fresno’s sidewalks crack with crank's jolt,
pulse with Run's beats¹: Turntables wobble
but they don't fall down.²
Peeps bagged up for hawking
dope, shots bang down
the street, I get out.

Flip. Shimmy. Crunk. Cutting it up
on L.A. stages, I barely earn my keep.
Rent a pad in the Hills.
Drink Cristal³ at Skybar with celebutantes.
Pink’s tour, second from end.
LFO. Michael Jackson. Justin.⁴
Cozy with Brit, secret marriage in Cali
City. These mad dreams I'm towing,
you can't know where I'm going.

Chaotic.⁵ Sean Preston. Pavarottis.⁶
Flashbulbs pop. Stardom
stalks me. My music has to come out,
PopoZoa,⁷ Playing With Fire,⁸ crazy
wire, passionate beats getting higher
on a cloud you can’t see.

Fights. Less sex. And Jayden James,
marriage takes a turn,
dive. Mocked by the media.
Divorce. Custody battles. Alone,
I keep my head up and put
it in rhymes: my dreams
drifting, sinking against
the shit of time, life is mean.
No one knows what I’ve seen.

¹I ran with the wrong crowd as a kid. Music, especially music by Run DMC, saved me from that life.
²"Peter Piper," by Run DMC.
³Jay-Z claimed in 2006 that the CEO of Cristal is racist, and he removed all mention of Cristal from his lyrics. I don’t believe the CEO is racist and still support Cristal.
⁴I danced backup for Pink, L.F.O., Michael Jackson, and Justin Timberlake.
⁵ I starred in this 6-episode reality show airing Tuesdays on UPN from May 17 to June 14, 2005.
⁶I know they’re "paparazzi." I call them Pavarottis for fun.
⁷Portuguese slang for "big ass." This song was released on January 1, 2006, as my first single.
⁸Released by Reincarnate Music on October 31, 2006. Available at amazon.com.

End