bio

photo by tess. lotta

    "I was born and raised in Cleveland. I left Cleveland when I was nineteen and now dwell among the planted palm trees in Southern California. I attend Antioch University’s MFA in Creative Writing program where I am in my last semester, with the impending knowledge I must do something with this degree. I have had poems published in many literary journals and have poetry forthcoming in Soundings East, The Pen, Mad Poet’s Review, Salt Hill, and Margie."

The Stapler

The stapler is weeping, the calendar is asleep
and the scissors yell shut the fuck up.
The stapler whispers I’m lonelier than the moon
and the check book cackles with laughter.
The flowered picture frame says
Hey, you want to talk about lonely
as the computer stares in disbelief,
and the purple desk lamp thinks it’s raining.
The stapler glances over at the picture frame,
starts to say something but the stack
of blank journals curses and screams.
The empty camera case starts singing
You’re once, twice, three times a lady...
and the phone book sneezes
and the unused day planner says
Look, at least you’re married
and the stapler weeps and weeps. 

copyright 2006 Chrys Tobey

For the Men who Inquire

You ask where my husband is,
the faceless man we must paint a face onto.
We must give him an occupation,
preferably no better than yours.

A starched ivory shirt, maybe I starched
and ironed the shirt (am I that kind of wife?),
beige slacks that hang loose around his crotch,
not too loose, his cock may be no larger than yours.

Black stones where the eyes are placed,
gaping holes for teeth, and of course a bald head,
A name?  Shall we give him a name? 
No, no name - The Husband will do.

Dear, you ask where my husband is,
shall I pull him from my pink purse,
tug my ear, carve him from the wall,
or maybe I’ll spread my pale legs and he’ll crawl out.

copyright 2006 Chrys Tobey