Janis Butler Holm

By Janis Butler Holm
Los Angeles, California, USA

He has stepped from a dark waiting place. He has moved toward her body with the crude insistence of a bad plot.

Her mind is stopped. She is fixed in the wisdom of stories learned too well: Be calm. It is inevitable. Do not struggle. He will only hurt you more.

For one long moment she stands mute, without motion. She could die of suspense. Then (here’s the reversal) her pen is in her hand and stabbing through his flesh.

Unhappy ever after, she will live to confess how the fury in her throat exploded red and harsh and howling.

This story, like the others, is ugly and raw. It speaks a kind of wisdom. If I ask why we have such stories, such wisdoms, will I breach some artful code? Will I violate some expectation?

First published: Tessera, 2006

By Janis Butler Holm
Los Angeles, California, USA

He sees how the lettuce
slides around the plate,
yellow and cunning,
mysterious in its ways.

He notes that the fries
are pointing southeast,
that they are sharp and oiled
and spattered with red.

The tomato slices whisper
soft pink obscenities,
their harlot song calling
to his lips, his tongue.

He smells in his burger
the black, smokey flesh
of things small and tender.
And he’s back at My Lai.

And he’s up and running,
he’s running, and around him,
the jungle, the colors,
the chaos, the horror.

He’s running and stumbling
and heaving and moaning.
He’s running, and he’s thinking
that he wants to go home.

First published: Red River Review, 2002