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Maktliai .41 ge Lorenzo Thomas Some women think A man should hunt for them Some women understand it And some men think Return a wondrous thing She must be waiting The dude goes out, Is gone all night She knits and yearns Till gray dawnlight Her girl friends say, “That trifling blank Ain’t coming back” And help undo her work That’s the kind of cat, You know, “No man can take My place” Instantly trucks his shadow Through the door Catches a fit That blinds him Even further. Folks like that You hear about them On the News. Some women understand it Another dude, you know, Is gone for days But she sits, humming At first a moan She knits and polishes And frets. She frowns at friends Then sings a gleeful song As they fidget them Whisper, “Girl, Is you gone mad?” So all of them chorusing “That trifling blank Urn hmmm, I knows a man!” Lorenzo Thomas is the author of Chances Are Few The Bathers other collections of poetry. He is a former NEA Creative Writing Fellow and lectures at University of Houston/Downtown College. , Some women Man, by the time My man tipped in She had damn near enough Macrame string To make a hammock 4; That sleep two on top Three on the bottom Some women think And there is beauty In the knit of thinking Some dudes know How to treat a woman Right Some don’t Some women understand it Martha Boethel The End of the World I was eleven when they put a fallout shelter sign in the courthouse. Remember: how strange it was on those wet walls. I tried to picture great tins of food \(there would be jerky, hard the barrels of water, geiger counter, medical kits, EMERGENCY INSTRUCTIONS, piled up in the attic with the county’s Christmas lights. I had read the manual. I knew how thick the walls should be, how air was filtered, what supplies we’d need. I knew radiation was just like dust: you wipe it off, sweep it away. I thought about doors and windows, how big the cracks were, how thin the glass. I thought of MAXIMUM CAPACITY, of all my friends, grandma, other people pounding to get in. That year I watched every plane that crossed from Houston to San Antonio. I ran to windows, looked out at the same dry lawns, same neighbors, same cars, trying to picture the end of the world, trying to remember salt tablets, blankets, bandages, brooms. Martha Boethel, a native of Hallettsville, is a freelance writer and poet living in Austin. *. 20 JANUARY 25, 1985