Nicole Tasker Woods

A hearty violation of a million
tiny hairs—soft strings in distress
over the plastic teeth of a volatile comb:
raking, exploring and scrutinizing
each cowlick and unadorned lock.
Brisk, piercing sheers snip and clip away
the last 6 months of hard work
to strengthen preservation,
maintain a life without description…
In a matter of hours, it all becomes
the epitome of stunted growth.

In shock and soaking wet,
each wisp stands surprised.
Once mistakenly viewed as strong,
it is now defined by its ever present body
and inability to lie vacant hiding face.
As if energized by the violation,
it revels in not being pulled back
or hung low by its own weight.
Each inch of the scalp fills equally
with anticipation and confusion,
creating stimulation within;
bringing a thrill of restlessness
to the mind, activating the brain…
When the tension is released,
a distinctive persona comes into full bloom
with the union of body, soul and hair.

Copyright © 2008 N.E. Tasker

She was a cowgirl wandering lonely streets of Southern California 
until she was found and delivered to the PetsMart. 
Still skittish from her abandoned past, she had trouble 
finding comfort in a store packed with other discarded creatures. 

Her whimper was muted forever from lacking care, 
which made her quickly become the silent mutt of the bunch. 
But then one day, her rescuers came and slipped her into 
a Louis Vuitton T-shirt to keep her warm from that day on. 

It was difficult for her to adjust to the mansion on Edgecliff Circle… 
there was so much food in her little bowl—so little time to devour it; 
too many rabbit holes and bushes to explore in the vast back yard; 
and an abundance of love disguised as smooches from everyone around her. 

Slowly, she learned to be a tough-dog at the doorbell’s cry, 
but can not help turning scaredy-cat in mere seconds after the door is opened. 
Her biggest triumph of all is fighting for her share of the limelight 
when the pushy Border Collie tries to steal all affection. 

Through many struggles in the past, she has discovered that in these new surroundings, her outward viciousness is only a façade for an inner coyness… 
Deep down inside, she loves to be coddled and scritched, 
appreciated for her cuteness, and to dream under the covers all night long.

The other day I was out on this job where I
had to crawl through the sewer because the
watah lines were mixed up with the leech
field, see? Brian and I, we’re on our knees
in there and then he climbs out. I says,
“What’s your problem?” “I’m getting eaten
alive by those bugs.” There were so many
goddamn deerflies everywhere, and Brian’s
such a pansy ass that he waited outside
while I scooped thru the shit. So after about
an hour, I went into the coola to get
somethin to eat. Brian and the new kid, Jon,
they finished diggin the trench when I was
almost done with my sandwich and Jon
looks at me for a bit and says, “Did you
wash your hands before you started eating?”
Now, he didn’t see me rinse off, so I says,
“Nah, that shit don’t bother me.”

I am an Angelees 
living in New Hampshire, 
choking on nostalgia and a Tanzania Tirade. 
Farewell phone calls 
and sisterly I Love You’s 
linger like the plague. 
With the right-to-left of my ’04 tassel, 
A Wheaties Autobiography 
is finally returned 
with four years worth of late charges. 
I know that 3,000 miles away 
Prince Charming is waiting for me: 
waiting while I fold 
22 years of memories 
in 16 days and then pack them 
perfectly in purple luggage. 
But ever after is on hold, 
paused in freeze frame 
while I float through a million goodbyes 
in three different states, 
dwelling on the fact that there is 
never enough tissue to pull away strong. 
My future’s suspended 
for one last hurrah 
with the ones who mean the most, 
and hurt the worse to leave… 
Aunts who have stepped in 
as extra mothers; 
Uncles who have supported me 
like proud fathers; 
Cousins younger and older 
who have made me laugh until I’ve cried; 
Grammies and Grandpas perpetually present 
to chit and chatter while life zips by; 
My Father, the King, 
my hero and my friend; 
And my Mother 
who is my truest confidant of all. 
But before they let me go 
I’ll ask them all to dance: 
I want to sweep them off their feet- 
promise my steps ahead are paramount, 
and pledge my footprints in New England 
will never lose their luster.

The lights are out, 
but the glow 
from underneath my door 
illuminates select items 
around the room. 
I can’t see it, 
but I know it’s there… 
a Snowball sitting 
tauntingly on my bookshelf. 
It’s begging, 
from the darkness of the far wall, 
to be released 
from its cellophane. 
My eyes forget to blink 
as they focus on the dark, 
and try to envision the sweet dome. 
Racing thoughts of 
beach vacations, 
bikinis and tan lines 
fail to avert me. 

The coconut will be crunchy 
come tomorrow; 
the marshmallow will harden 
overnight; 
the hidden chocolate cake, 
shielded by these 
colorless sugars, 
will take longer to grow stale, 
but why take the chance? 

Junky calories 
resonate from underneath 
fluffy cream filling… 
my ears strain 
to resist what can not be 
muffled by plastic wrap– 
hostess hostess hostess. 
By the invasion of hallway lights, 
my fingers become thumbs 
as they frantically rip the wrapper, 
shoving 6 fat grams 
into my mouth 
with three swift bites.

She introduced me to her father 
and then she said a prayer… 
She made movements with her hands 
as I stood in silence, 
hovering over him as he lay 
below the Impatiens that stared up at me. 
She was in New York to see her Nanny: 
someone unrelated by blood, 
but linked by affection. 
I was in New York to see how the absence 
of family is crowned by the abundance of friends. 

In the distance, the cemetery foliage is dying… 
I don’t know this man beneath my feet, 
but I’ve seen his pictures, heard his stories. 
I don’t ask questions or force her to remember, 
but I do listen when her memory speaks. 

Forty-eight hours later 
in Connecticut by the ocean, 
we drank Merlot with her mother. 
My senses virgin to the 
maroon flavor of Clos du Bois, 
she had to teach me how to relish. 
The first sip, a raw introduction; 
the second, the aromatic Napa Valley, 
dismissing the sour fermentation; 
the next, a noisy slurp splashing the tongue 
and cleansing the palate; 
finally, the swish of mouthwash-redwine. 
Hard to remember, now, 
the swallow of this drink 
because it so quickly distorted my thoughts. 

As the ruby liquid disappeared from 
my glass, my mind drew crooked pictures 
of family gatherings: 
one-hundred plus people 
imbibing on my new-found plum, 
as they bring to life their past in pasta– 
penne a la vodka and buttery cavatelli in 
Settembre family red sauce– 
each member glistening in yellow gold 
as their voices chime high and their laughter 
resonates in my ears. 

It was then I saw 
the shadow of an Italian Princess 
and there I took a long drink 
from her family tradition. 
But it was in the constancy of shifting seasons 
that death and absence silently drowned 
in the ocean’s distant fury.

Broken oceans built on breaking waves 
A rigid caress on frothy sand 
Weaving through teasing toes 
Twenty times to feel it writhe 
An intense stroke reaches immaculate taste 
To know everything; In turn, to work for nothing. 
So utterly comfortable that you want nothing 
No more than what you have 
You can’t look at it. You can’t touch it. 
It’s floating like heavy heartbeats 
More complete with this perfection at my fingertips 
Than when walking alone on that frothy shore 
Reading into simple glances…memories past seem so trivial, 
Equivalent to silly insignificances making my world go round 
Like touching a tattoo: Not feeling the colors embedded in skin 
Even when removed, there it still remains 
No ink, but tiny scars to run fingertips across 
These fleeting imperfections 
Faint impression of reality years ago 
Remain souvenirs that never disappear.

Rhythmic words 
Flow through my head 
Even when I’m sleeping 
Then when I wake 
My body shakes 
My ears hear words come creeping. 

Haunting all I’ve ever known, 
Rushing like a skipping stone. 
Tearing me apart inside, 
Scurrying they sneak and hide. 

I rush to write, 
Delay the fleeting thought, 
Of rhythmic words 
I once forgot.

For money: 
for champagne diamonds 
and pink&white acrylics. 
For stilettos and suede 
and hair sprayed updos. 
For confidence in new-found beauty. 
For the perseverance to plan 
and never cancel. 

For transformation: 
for a chance to taste the bizarre 
and savor the uncanny. 
For disgust of a lemming life 
and envy of Self. 
For all worker-bees of this world 
and the select few who strike against the Queen– 
For my right to royalty. 

For frugality: 
for dollar menus 
and seeking out every cut-able corner. 
For the right to encourage wishful thinking 
and a pinky-promise at eleven:eleven. 
For saving up myself and spending it on others 
in unwanted conversation. 
For the privilege to set standards 
and the gall to stand by them: 
For saving face.

A hearty violation of a million
tiny hairs—soft strings in distress
over the plastic teeth of a volatile comb:
raking, exploring and scrutinizing
each cowlick and unadorned lock.
Brisk, piercing sheers snip and clip away
the last 6 months of hard work
to strengthen preservation,
maintain a life without description…
In a matter of hours, it all becomes
the epitome of stunted growth.

In shock and soaking wet,
each wisp stands surprised.
Once mistakenly viewed as strong,
it is now defined by its ever present body
and inability to lie vacant hiding face.
As if energized by the violation,
it revels in not being pulled back
or hung low by its own weight.
Each inch of the scalp fills equally
with anticipation and confusion,
creating stimulation within;
bringing a thrill of restlessness
to the mind, activating the brain…
When the tension is released,
a distinctive persona comes into full bloom
with the union of body, soul and hair.

What do you know about this man? 
Who was someone’s son in Pascack Valley; 
A girl’s first love in Annapolis… 
Then her husband at St. Dominic’s; 
Who was a father first in Los Angeles 
Then a father again in Jacksonville? 

What do say about this man? 
Who traveled from state to state over many years; 
To succeed in an industry 
That would make him a legend 
And transform his name into something untouchable? 

What do you think about this man? 
With “CRW” stitched on each cuff 
Of neatly pressed dress shirts 
Made imperfection-free each night by the man, 
Who worked tirelessly underneath the stars, 
To thrive and rise above 
Those in corner offices with a view. 

Do you wonder about unwavering certainty? 
That which is found in this dedicated man who is 
Proudly taking this journey and making his mark 
On a lifetime made of personal and professional firsts. 

You may have your own opinions 
And you may believe many things; 
But it is not what you think of him 
Or what you have heard about him… 
But that you are privileged to know him. 

To truly know Clark Woods 
Is to know the father, son, husband and friend. 
And if you get the occasion 
To have an audience with him, 
You will appreciate his approving grin— 
Cunningly stuck halfway 
Between a laugh and a sinister smile… 
Revealing everything about himself 
And then again, nothing at all.

There was a point 
in my life 
when I burned 
every CD yellow. 
Before this golden revelation 
seized me by the knees, 
you were a friend of a friend 
and you kissed 
my kneecaps 
in the darkness of April. 
It was then that I knew 
those stars 
weren’t blinking at me, 
but shining for you, 
which helps me see 
when running 
in the dark. 

The crusty sop 
of downtrodden foliage 
feeds my hasty tennies 
as I trudge 
through wet-wastelands. 
The five corners 
of a trillion rusty leaves 
yellow in the lampposts 
elegantly inhaling 
sulfur breaths. 
A cheap glow 
hesitates in the air 
then dissolves in the cold 
playing all around me. 

I don’t love the 
second friends once removed. 
Didn’t appreciate the 
multiple 
goodbye mornings. 
But I fancy those eight 
hours in April 
when you saw straight 
through me 
and I didn’t even shiver.