Transference
by Laura Foley
first published in The Mom Egg Review
The inmate says he wants
to smash someone’s head
against a concrete floor.
My brother’s stolen
my land and here I am
stuck in jail.
His face is livid,
his fist twitching.
We spend the day
meditating in silence,
eight hours in a quiet room
with a concrete floor
I breathe his anger in.
The next morning, my neck
is stiff and sore.
I have to hold my head up
with my hands
to save my neck
from its weight,
compressing the spine.
The inmate smashes
his fist into a guard,
is strait-jacketed,
taken upstate.
Six months till my head
and neck exhale, six months
to heal the ache.
Sophie
by Laura Foley
first published in The Glass Tree by Harbor Mountain Press, 2012
I need to go to the bathroom. Help me!
Sophie cries, her bent body tense,
contorted like a fist beneath the sheets.
I find a nurse in the hallway.
Sophie just went, she says, exasperated,
then vanishes into someone else's room.
I return, tell the patient to relax, lie back.
Now she's calling for Arthur.
My son! I need him! I am dying.
Maybe he'll be here soon, I say,
and: It's okay to be alone.
Then I place my hand beneath hers
and she grips it tightly, releases, grips, releases,
her hand pulsing in mine like a heartbeat
I breathe with, as finally, she sleeps.
Homelessness Retreat
by Laura Foley
first published in The Glass Tree by Harbor Mountain Press, 2012
I
Wanting to understand, I’ve returned to the city
where I was born, to become intimate with streets,
the people of the streets. To sleep as they do,
thin cardboard on concrete.
To share meals with strangers;
So, how long since you've had a job?
or, Where’s the best place for lunch?
And maybe they'll tell you
how they’ve found Jesus.
Without credit card, wallet,
clean clothes, showers, toothbrush, cash.
For four days, three nights, we live unwashed,
without a clean place to sleep.
Sometimes we sit chanting in a circle in the park
or walk miles of city blocks
finding shelter in churches
or pulling cardboard from trash.
Some of us quarry treasure, plastic bags full
of cans, worth five cents each.
II
Past midnight, we’re lying beneath the Win Won
Chinese Restaurant sign,
in an alley off Pearl Street.
When we look up from our concrete beds,
we see buildings on each side, over twenty stories tall,
so high the two sides seem to touch.
I recite The Lake Isle of Innisfree:
Though I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core
and we all try to sleep.
III
Rain penetrates our urban cavern,
touches our eyes, cheeks, brows.
I imagine rain falling onto New York Harbor,
all the tender souls lying on the street.
Gnats arrive, biting our lips,
the delicate flesh around our eyes.
I wrap myself inward, seeking sleep,
and then find it.
IV
Before breakfast at the mission on Bowery,
I squeeze into a pew between two sleeping men.
Outside it’s still dark, the air gray and tired.
I feel like sleeping too.
The preacher bellows God is Strong and Mighty,
Halleluiah! His throat sounds tight and dry.
Then the doors open and we’re allowed to eat.
A long line for oatmeal, platters of bruised pears, apples,
yogurt slightly out-of-date.
Two Asian women fill their sacks with fruit,
like peasants gleaning a field.
V
Some of us try to sleep on park benches.
I lie down on cardboard,
curl into my neighbor’s back,
seeking warmth, eluding wind.
I brush a crawling spider from my face,
closing my eyes,
trying not to think of rats.
Several policemen arrive, holding night sticks.
I rise drowsy on one arm,
attempt a smile.
Laura Foley is the author of four poetry collections including The Glass Tree (Harbor Mountain Press, 2012), which won the Foreword Book of the Year Award, and Joy Street (Headmistress Press, 2014), which won the Bi-Writer’s Award. Her poems have appeared in journals and magazines including Valparaiso Poetry Review, Inquiring Mind, Pulse Magazine, Poetry Nook, Lavender Review, The Mom Egg Review, and in the anthologies In the Arms of Words: Poems for Disaster Relief and Weatherings.
by Laura Foley
first published in The Mom Egg Review
The inmate says he wants
to smash someone’s head
against a concrete floor.
My brother’s stolen
my land and here I am
stuck in jail.
His face is livid,
his fist twitching.
We spend the day
meditating in silence,
eight hours in a quiet room
with a concrete floor
I breathe his anger in.
The next morning, my neck
is stiff and sore.
I have to hold my head up
with my hands
to save my neck
from its weight,
compressing the spine.
The inmate smashes
his fist into a guard,
is strait-jacketed,
taken upstate.
Six months till my head
and neck exhale, six months
to heal the ache.
Sophie
by Laura Foley
first published in The Glass Tree by Harbor Mountain Press, 2012
I need to go to the bathroom. Help me!
Sophie cries, her bent body tense,
contorted like a fist beneath the sheets.
I find a nurse in the hallway.
Sophie just went, she says, exasperated,
then vanishes into someone else's room.
I return, tell the patient to relax, lie back.
Now she's calling for Arthur.
My son! I need him! I am dying.
Maybe he'll be here soon, I say,
and: It's okay to be alone.
Then I place my hand beneath hers
and she grips it tightly, releases, grips, releases,
her hand pulsing in mine like a heartbeat
I breathe with, as finally, she sleeps.
Homelessness Retreat
by Laura Foley
first published in The Glass Tree by Harbor Mountain Press, 2012
I
Wanting to understand, I’ve returned to the city
where I was born, to become intimate with streets,
the people of the streets. To sleep as they do,
thin cardboard on concrete.
To share meals with strangers;
So, how long since you've had a job?
or, Where’s the best place for lunch?
And maybe they'll tell you
how they’ve found Jesus.
Without credit card, wallet,
clean clothes, showers, toothbrush, cash.
For four days, three nights, we live unwashed,
without a clean place to sleep.
Sometimes we sit chanting in a circle in the park
or walk miles of city blocks
finding shelter in churches
or pulling cardboard from trash.
Some of us quarry treasure, plastic bags full
of cans, worth five cents each.
II
Past midnight, we’re lying beneath the Win Won
Chinese Restaurant sign,
in an alley off Pearl Street.
When we look up from our concrete beds,
we see buildings on each side, over twenty stories tall,
so high the two sides seem to touch.
I recite The Lake Isle of Innisfree:
Though I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core
and we all try to sleep.
III
Rain penetrates our urban cavern,
touches our eyes, cheeks, brows.
I imagine rain falling onto New York Harbor,
all the tender souls lying on the street.
Gnats arrive, biting our lips,
the delicate flesh around our eyes.
I wrap myself inward, seeking sleep,
and then find it.
IV
Before breakfast at the mission on Bowery,
I squeeze into a pew between two sleeping men.
Outside it’s still dark, the air gray and tired.
I feel like sleeping too.
The preacher bellows God is Strong and Mighty,
Halleluiah! His throat sounds tight and dry.
Then the doors open and we’re allowed to eat.
A long line for oatmeal, platters of bruised pears, apples,
yogurt slightly out-of-date.
Two Asian women fill their sacks with fruit,
like peasants gleaning a field.
V
Some of us try to sleep on park benches.
I lie down on cardboard,
curl into my neighbor’s back,
seeking warmth, eluding wind.
I brush a crawling spider from my face,
closing my eyes,
trying not to think of rats.
Several policemen arrive, holding night sticks.
I rise drowsy on one arm,
attempt a smile.
Laura Foley is the author of four poetry collections including The Glass Tree (Harbor Mountain Press, 2012), which won the Foreword Book of the Year Award, and Joy Street (Headmistress Press, 2014), which won the Bi-Writer’s Award. Her poems have appeared in journals and magazines including Valparaiso Poetry Review, Inquiring Mind, Pulse Magazine, Poetry Nook, Lavender Review, The Mom Egg Review, and in the anthologies In the Arms of Words: Poems for Disaster Relief and Weatherings.