At the Holiday Crafts Fair

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<ul><li><p>At the Holiday Crafts FairAuthor(s): Jacqueline BergerSource: The Iowa Review, Vol. 35, No. 3 (Winter, 2005/2006), pp. 57-58Published by: University of IowaStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/20152076 .Accessed: 21/06/2014 01:28</p><p>Your use of the JSTOR archive indicates your acceptance of the Terms &amp; Conditions of Use, available at .http://www.jstor.org/page/info/about/policies/terms.jsp</p><p> .JSTOR is a not-for-profit service that helps scholars, researchers, and students discover, use, and build upon a wide range ofcontent in a trusted digital archive. We use information technology and tools to increase productivity and facilitate new formsof scholarship. For more information about JSTOR, please contact support@jstor.org.</p><p> .</p><p>University of Iowa is collaborating with JSTOR to digitize, preserve and extend access to The Iowa Review.</p><p>http://www.jstor.org </p><p>This content downloaded from 91.229.229.177 on Sat, 21 Jun 2014 01:28:06 AMAll use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions</p><p>http://www.jstor.org/action/showPublisher?publisherCode=uiowahttp://www.jstor.org/stable/20152076?origin=JSTOR-pdfhttp://www.jstor.org/page/info/about/policies/terms.jsphttp://www.jstor.org/page/info/about/policies/terms.jsp</p></li><li><p>JACQUELINE BERGER </p><p>At the Holiday Crafts Fair </p><p>My friend and I sell compasses next to a girl selling goddess magnets. She's so female the air around her </p><p>is perfumed?crushed lavender, </p><p>curry soup. She's in her twenties </p><p>and has a baby who all day travels </p><p>from hip to lap. Both of them </p><p>blond and every part of their bodies </p><p>pumped full, the abundance </p><p>of nature bursting into life. </p><p>I remember learning to shade in art class, </p><p>circles darkened from below </p><p>until they were globes. A useful skill considering the lips and cheeks, the belly and ass. </p><p>Watching the girl as she walks across the room, </p><p>her hips in a stretch skirt, </p><p>her milk-rich breasts straining the cotton tee, </p><p>almost makes me a believer. </p><p>And when she pops a breast </p><p>out of her shirt to nurse, I can feel </p><p>it in my mouth, both the nipple and the firm swell of flesh around it. </p><p>Midday, her friend comes to join her, </p><p>they talk of remedies, essential essences, </p><p>they praise the Goddess, </p><p>passing the child between them. </p><p>Then the dad arrives. </p><p>He's Venezuelan, tall and so thin his hips </p><p>jut out where his stomach dips in. </p><p>He's loose as a hinged board, slow as oil. </p><p>Now I want to marry both of them, </p><p>let the swollen river of their nights </p><p>gush over me. </p><p>57 </p><p>This content downloaded from 91.229.229.177 on Sat, 21 Jun 2014 01:28:06 AMAll use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions</p><p>http://www.jstor.org/page/info/about/policies/terms.jsp</p></li><li><p>Okay, the woman's views are daft </p><p>and the man's English needs work, </p><p>and they just moved out of their one-bedroom </p><p>to a converted garage. But youth, that country I never felt at home in, </p><p>is bright as sun on water </p><p>and shines on them. </p><p>Their skin is a place to settle, a philosophy, a way of life. </p><p>He comes back from the food booth carrying pie with whipped cream. They eat it </p><p>together, the spoon dipping into one mouth then the other. </p><p>The baby is happy, gurgling at the nipple, the woman </p><p>is blessed she tells us during a lull </p><p>between customers, and I believe it, blessed in a way I've never been, </p><p>cradled in her body, using it </p><p>for every purpose it was intended for. </p><p>Thanksgiving's just around the corner, </p><p>the feast day's table around which </p><p>my own family will gather. </p><p>My father being helped to his place </p><p>by the caregiver, who settles him in, </p><p>ties a napkin around his neck. </p><p>He's messy as a toddler now, </p><p>suddenly left-handed, his whole </p><p>right side refusing to work. </p><p>Next to him, my mom, hunched </p><p>but tough, my brother who is loud, </p><p>the husband I married in my forties. </p><p>We will drink wine left over from the wedding, lift our glasses to each other, here at the table </p><p>at the start of one more winter, then </p><p>lower our heads to the meal. </p><p>58 </p><p>This content downloaded from 91.229.229.177 on Sat, 21 Jun 2014 01:28:06 AMAll use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions</p><p>http://www.jstor.org/page/info/about/policies/terms.jsp</p><p>Article Contentsp. 57p. 58</p><p>Issue Table of ContentsThe Iowa Review, Vol. 35, No. 3 (Winter, 2005/2006), pp. i-vi, 1-186Volume InformationFront MatterHuman Rights Index [pp. v-vi]Floodland: Lorine Niedecker, 1903-1970 [pp. 2-5]Puck [p. 6-6]The Driest Season [pp. 7-13]Individualized Altimetry of Stripes: In Memory of My Father, C. Clark McLeod, 1938-2005 [pp. 14-24]Parable [pp. 25-34]Massacre en Core [pp. 35-36]Hillbillions [p. 37-37]Dinette [p. 38-38]Winterreise [p. 39-39]Homecoming [pp. 40-41]Lermontov's Room: Moscow, 1995 [p. 42-42]Peredelkino [p. 43-43]Bomber's Moon [p. 44-44]Perfect Motels [pp. 45-46]Currants, Currents, Undercurrents [pp. 47-48]The Everywhere [p. 49-49]Argument [pp. 50-51]Heaven [p. 52-52]Ode to Stegosaurus [p. 53-53]In Palermo: Laundry; Hats; Station [p. 54-54]The Transmutation of Objects When Terminally Ill [p. 55-55]Cold Fish, or on My Inability to Love [p. 56-56]At the Holiday Crafts Fair [pp. 57-58]Gin [pp. 59-60]The Weight of Blood [pp. 61-62]The Smallest Woman in the World [pp. 63-67]The Interior [pp. 68-80]Singing in the Ear Canal [pp. 81-92]Algren Meets Donoso [p. 93-93]The Last Buffalo Roaming Iowa City [pp. 94-95]Playing Twenty-One with Mark Strand [pp. 96-98]Freak! [p. 99-99]Pastoral [pp. 100-101]Mollusk &amp; Evening [pp. 102-103]Reliquary [p. 104-104]In the Borough of Queens [pp. 105-106]Moonface and Charlie [pp. 107-116]Lie Still Lady Moth in Our Wedlock Bed [pp. 117-118]A Servant. A Hanging. A Paper House [p. 119-119]Two Sojourns in the MRI Machine [p. 120-120]Nests, Nearing Key Largo [p. 121-121]Stage Mother [p. 122-122]Shoal [p. 123-123]Mathematician Watching the Moths at an All-Night Gas Station [p. 124-124]Empty Similes [p. 125-125]In the New Church [pp. 126-127]Suez War: Alexandria, 1956 [pp. 128-129]Christmas Eve [pp. 130-136]There Is a White Man in My Soup [p. 137-137]Love Sonnets: Taking the First Two Lines of Zora Cross's "Love Sonnets" and... [pp. 138-147]Cold-Fire [pp. 148-164]Magritte in New York [pp. 165-166]Anabasis [p. 167-167]Odd and Full of Love: Northampton County Asylum, 1863 [p. 168-168]On the Thing [pp. 169-170]Ampersand [pp. 171-176]Back Matter</p></li></ul>