Selective Vision These are my children, and This is my life. Rain against the picture window, The little one asleep On the couch with a fever. There are no men cartwheeling From one hundred stories up, No acrid wind in the trees. My boy cuts catalog pictures For an alphabet book, looks For his glue stick.  I warm Coffee in the microwave. There are no maps with escape routes Stowed in the car, no Discussion of anthrax saved On my home computer. A tower of laundry Obscures what's down the pike. I buy Halloween costumes and methodically repeat, "These Are my children and This is my life." Bravado           "They're all messed up"           Police officer in Night of the Living Dead I am wandering around the house Like a wounded animal. I'm eyeing the merlot And it's only nine a.m. My habitat's been knocked flat; My familiars picked off Like ducks in a shooting gallery. Bang. Bang. Bang. Someone's an excellent shot. Father, mother, marriage And Joyce in the tower; Four dead ducks in a row. I flip the bird to the carnival crack-shot, "Can't catch me you bastard." Then somebody backs over The Pekinese across the street. Wailing over a dead dog, I see I'm on my knees; A game bird, Down and full of buckshot Like everybody else The Score I had people I loved In those buildings; A childhood friend, a cousin, And Johanna's brother, who bolted his desk At the bank. I suppose you'd say I'm lucky, That two out of three Ain't bad. My cousin hitched a ride out To Roxanne and the kids In Garden City. Michael, brother of Johanna, Spent the holidays At the Santa Fe homestead. And Joyce, Joyce flew Like a kamikaze cartoon Down to the lobby Of Tower Two Or was crushed into dust Under stacks of stairwell, Where nobody she knew Was waiting. I'll consider us Lucky when somebody Can tell me She never felt a thing. Always Read The Insert That Comes With Your Drugs I have traded one little pill For another and now The kitten is "Striped Bastard" And the children are screaming Incubi, and the phone rings With malicious intent, in cahoots With the doorbell. I'll be damned if I do The "just a minute" jig, With harmless lowered fists, Another mad minute. The new medicine's made My next move clear: Denny's with truckers by dawn, indulge The wild urge west For everybody's safety. This is not a side effect, I tell you, this Is revelation. Resistance is Futile Everybody's dead here At the house I grew up in. Well almost; the daughter Has nearly caught up. I dared Not to miss you and Look at the results. Today the thermometer won't rise Above freezing and I'm digging Through your ugly Ethan Allen Dresser for that old black one-piece, To put on for the backyard. How long will it take To stop my heart, cease The little crystalline puffs From rising above My blue lips? Out here By the birdbath, the struggle To be something other Than dutiful is coming To an end. In heaven All will be as it should be; I will jester on my cloud Between the two of you; Little clown; master distracter; I know my place and I'm back In it. Reclining flat On a ratty towel I wait To pick up where we left Off; forgive, forgive My foray away, This ill-starred stretch Toward the gears. I will not switch, I'm At your disposal, No more dancing For myself In front of the mirror. Did you miss me? Did you miss me? Oh god, dear god. It's good to be Back home. M.J. Tenerelli

Mary Jane Tenerelli AnotherSun Poet of the Year