Cathryn Cofell of Appleton, Wisconsin has been published frequently in magazines and anthologies including Gypsy Cab, Rag Mag and The Door Voice. She has received several awards for her work, including first place in the Wisconsin Regional Writers’ Association Jade Ring Contest and Outstanding Poem from the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts and Letters for both 1996 and 1997. She has just been nominated for a 1997 National Pushcart Prize for Poetry, and her first chapbook, "Her Religion", is now available.

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Sip On This Awhile, Darling

Sutter Home Vineyards. Napa. April.
A large woman in pink paisley stretch pants
and untied keds jostles me for the last time
in line for the last pair of miniature cork earrings
on sale 3 for $10.00 just like the wine
will you back off?

It could be the heat or the wine or the perfume
of a thousand sweaty tourists who prefer screw tops,
tube tops and acid rain to the velvet kiss of a Sterling Merlot,
but I’m one step closer to stepping out of line
and exploding my whole day onto Number 59 next-in-line
or drilling a corkscrew into my brain
to keep from collapsing in a vinegar faint.

All I wanted was a tour of the restroom and directions
to Possum’s, but instead I’ve found Oz
only here the wicked witch drives a Town Car,
her monkeys sport hair plugs, and my shoes
are sequined with grape stains
that won’t wash out by the time I get home.

Now, I am not a wine snot. I still get tremors from
winelistophobia and get tanked on an occasional dusty discount,
but if this tour bus white trash shot and a beer walk in the clouds
is the other alternative then crush me like a grape,
stick a cork up my nose, flip me over and call me fermented.
Next time, this connoisseur will do the trip by mail.

Copyright © Cathryn Cofell 1998

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The Three-Month Mark

I cower in a corner of the bathroom
with the rest of the spiders
still as paint
eyes tucked in tattered slippers
hoping no one will notice,
hoping no one will brush me down,
flush me away
folded in used tissue.

Parts of me already feel
stepped on,
a well-placed wingtip
grinding into my sternum
churning bits of aching bone into blood
turning bits of breath into glass.

Pill free for three months,
enough time to crawl every crevice
of the medicine cabinet for one
small pill rolled away like dust,
enough time to scour it clean
to be scoured clean,
to house a womb acceptable for planting,
a fertile sow poked and preened
ready for public breeding,

enough time to feel enough pain
to last a lifetime of birth
and rebirth and death,
walking death walking pain.
Don’t ask me again
how I feel.

Copyright © Cathryn Cofell 1998

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Curve Ball on Leon Street

The pitcher’s mound
on Leon Street is where
love stranded me too soon.
You were twelve,
smooth and shiny and cool
as custard in your Wrangler jeans
and Brewer’s cap,
and I was as trim and flat
as any boy on the block.
And would prove it
if you asked.

We played catch
in centerfield,
spit shining
the palms of our hands,
knuckles nuzzling
the soft crease of skin
below cheek.    Rippling
rhythmically            right to left
  ball pinned to the dust
arched back left
      to right,

religiously over
and over again
until the sky purpled,
the streetlights flickered,
until one of us grew
tired or angry
or both
and went home
or just grew.

Copyright © Cathryn Cofell 1998

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In Cathy’s Coffee House

there are more brands of caffeine
to choose from
than nose hairs to smell them,
but everyone knows she never
gets the taste quite right
and it’s a shame
you’ll just have to sip
to be seated.

In Cathy’s Coffee House
the cheesecake floats in
from Winneconne
like oil fish on a sunny Saturday
on the Wolf
only better flavor and not
so many bones.

In Cathy’s Coffee House
Buddha and KD Lang sit
in the back
holding hands and blessing
seaweed sandwiches
with a dill pickle spear on the side.

In Cathy’s Coffee House
the crooked tables are set with plastic
in every color from green to magenta,
but the customers prefer
to use their hands.

In Cathy’s Coffee House
there is little grace but much intent,
everyone sighs quietly behind a newspaper,
and you may hear God clearing
his throat when the music stops.

Copyright © Cathryn Cofell 1998

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