Snatched

What did it mean
to be in the parking lot,
a bending weed under ocean
retrieving a bag of frozen peas
from the ground and then
gone,

divorced from her life,
forced into a new marriage where
“CROATOAN” was carved into a tree?
Now, she is Stone Henge,
a group of lonely stones
thrusting mystery into sky.

She said, she said, she said,
It won’t happen to me—
But there are
300 victims a year,
300 men hiding in the bush
invisible as wind,

six foot seven dog catchers
nets, raised guillotines.
Silly to face the needle all life long
and not know it,
wagging a happy tail
till the death serum stops the wag

mid-beat.
The frozen peas slipped from her hand
returned to the concrete
rattling their tale to the melting tar,
She never saw him coming—
and the dog catcher hulled her off

leaving the trunk open
driver’s seat empty
and her purse
a spilled drink
all over the shivering ground.

Walden Pond

Sunlight painted the faces of leaves
round children giggled

pulled fish from the pond’s open mouth
Picnickers lay on the grass

autumn beside them
Thoreau snored quietly

Emerson and Alcot droned on
Yellowing grass gossiped to tree rings

flowers opened and closed like fireworks
On the commuter rail from Concord

you got down on your knee
As the overpass shadowed the train

the last wish of the dying sun
doused our faces orange

and in a small black box
you offered me eternity

Tamara Oakman, a graduate of Temple University, has completed her Master's thesis in English—a book entitled, Snatched—at Arcadia University; won awards in poetry, fiction, creative non-fiction, and drama. She has been published by Many Mountains Moving, Philadelphia Stories, Mad Poets Review, and other journals. She is the executive director of The Light of Unity Arts Association and currently lives and loves in Philadelphia.