Diane Martin
GOOD NEIGHBORS
"Something there is that doesn’t love a wall…"
Robert Frost
Watch the razor wire.
Cut and wriggle through,
not over or under,
like a thief escaped.
Crime scenes continue
while moaning, eerie howls
hover round like wolves.
Cover the baby
in bubble wrap best
you can, but leave holes
for air. Hand her through.
Now you. Remember
to breathe shallow gasps
to filter out dust.
Coughing, crying are
as much as lives are worth.
* * *
I MET A MAN
Familiar tale begun
here, woman via woman, eyes locked,
my new friend admits in
opening if slanted gambit
her deflated, common,
irate story. I respond in kind
and we commiserate
guiltily, ashamed at seeing blind.
With no excuses tucked
beneath our napkins, neither youth
nor ignorance, we’re stuck
with old fate as bravado to mouth.
Like Camus’ four shots,
or Beethoven’s initial sally,
hollow doom booms, shouts
out in testimony, "I met a man."
Diane Martin’s poetry and prose have been published by Pentimento, Vine Leaves Literary
Journal, Willamette Review of the Liberal Arts, Twisted Vineleaves, and Portland Review of
Art. Martin’s essays have been read on Maine Things Considered; she has participated
in radio documentaries and interviews in the US and Russia. Her photographs have been exhibited in the US,
Russia, and Italy. Since 1984 Martin has had Myasthenia Gravis, Lupus, Fibromyalgia, degenerative arthritis,
and numerous other chronic diseases and syndromes.
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