Christine Korfhage
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Christine Korfhage was born in Albany, N.Y. and grew up overseas. A former artisan and juried member of the League of New Hampshire Craftsmen, she began writing poetry at age 49. Returning to school after three decades, in 1999 she received her B. A. from Vermont College's Adult Degree Program where she was awarded a Fellowship for Excellence in Creative Writing. She received her M.F.A. from Bennington College in 2001. Her poems have appeared in a number of journals, including Nimrod International Review, Paterson Literary Review, Pearl, Red Rock Review, The Spoon River Poetry Review, and in the anthology The Breath of Parted Lips, Voices From The Robert Frost Place, Volume II. A mother and grandmother, Christine lives in New Hampshire and Cape Cod. We Aren't Who We Are and this world isn't either is her first book.
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Divorce
I'm sitting at a little table
by the bakery window
having the mug of tea and raspberry scone
that's my weekly treat after therapy.
If my eyes are swollen it's from
that cry I had after Dr. Coursin said,
There's nothing wrong with you
that wouldn't be soothed by being with a man
who knows how to hold you.
Across the street the UPS man's loading
packages into his truck. I wonder
if he'd know how. Or that bald guy
with the briefcase who just walked by.
No matter how old I get, part of me
stays sixteen, still living in Manila,
still heartsick.
Books help. This bakery's
next to Gibson's Bookstore.
As soon as I finish my snack, I'll check out
the poetry. When Dr. Coursin said,
Why don't you try writing a poem?
I thought he was nuts.
I said, I don't like poetry. I forgot
about those words that roll through my head.
Before my boyfriend--that first love
you think will never leave you--left,
Srta. Martinez, my Spanish teacher
taught them to us. I can still see her.
Gray hair. Glasses. The way she stood
beside her desk, ran her finger
down the roster, then one by one called us
to the front, made us look straight ahead
and recite. She said those words helped her
survive the sight of Japanese soldiers
marching her father off to his death.
I still don't understand them completely--
something about a king, a prisoner,
that we aren't who we are--
I love how they sound, though.
After that boy left I said them over and over.
I'm saying them now.
Picture Perfect
In those days, after putting the baby
down for a nap, I'd tidy up.
And when there was no toy out of place,
no dish unwashed, no speck of dust
on the white kitchen counter or floor,
no smudge on the piano, no fingerprints
on the windows, glass-topped tables,
or patio doors, I'd stare at the phone.
Sometimes I'd open the drawer under it,
take out the Yellow Pages,
and look up “psychiatrist.”
Once or twice I started to dial.
But the thought of exposing
so much disarray would send me
outdoors, past tubs filled with jasmine
to the lounge chair by the pool overlooking
the dock with the gleaming white boat
tied up to it. And whoever happened
to sail by, notice the scent of jasmine,
and glance up, would see me sitting there,
tanned and pretty in my straw hat
and bikini, sipping iced tea with ice cubes
made of lemonade and sprigs of mint,
looking perfectly happy.
The Artist
It was the usual argument: Jonas insisting
he wasn't a lying, cheating, double-crossing
scoundrel who chased every skirt in sight.
He was an artist-a French Moroccan Abstract Expressionist.
Unlike me, his uptight American wife,
he wasn't hung up about sex.
And that's where we left it.
Where we always left it.
But this time those words stayed with me.
When I woke. When I slept.
The night of our party, when I smiled
as two hundred guests leaned toward me:
You must be so proud of your husband.
That man has such talent. You're so lucky
to be married to an artist.
They were there when I danced with the off-
duty cop-the one with the beautiful smile,
hired to keep his eyes on the paintings.
In fact, those words were still with me
when I swallowed a few magic mushrooms,
led the soon silly cop past the hibiscus,
behind the night-blooming jasmine,
to a quiet corner of our yard, where after
telling him, Relax. It's okay.
I'm married to an artist-
a French Moroccan Abstract Expressionist,
we lay ourselves down on the just mowed grass,
began making love, and kept on,
and didn't stop.
