STORI tHIS mORNING

bY bEN bERMAN

All night long I’ve been plundering my past
and here with me this morning is a six-
foot-six mute. He has eaten the last
scone and is now pointing at the pancake mix

and rubbing his belly. Soon, we are joined
by a scantily clad saddhu and his
little monkey friend. The saddhu points
at the pancake mix. The monkey screeches.

I don’t have eggs, I tell them. But it’s no use.
Let’s go, I say. We leave, head down to Stop
and Shop when suddenly there’s a loud noise.
Six kids come running past us and up

ahead we see a young boy lying
on the ground. That must be me, I think. We walk
over to him and I recognize my old Lions
cap and grey fleece. Get up, you little fuck,

I want to yell. The Saddhu walks over,
begins to prod and probe him with his trident.
A young woman appears. (Old friend? Lover?)
She runs over to the boy still lying

on the ground and helps him up. She’s beautiful.
What could have been! She touches his face,
fingers his ear which is beginning to swell.
He’s just staring at her, too embarrassed

to speak. You Goddamned Sissy, the mute
carves into his arm. The saddhu gnarls and grunts.
Only the monkey screeches in delight.
The beautiful woman lets go of his hand

and walks away. The boy looks up into
the sky and then at us – monkey and mute,
lonesome dreamer and holy Hindu –
the very things he’ll one day write about.

____________________________________________________________________________

Ben Berman won the 2002 Erika Mumford Prize from the New England Poetry Club.
He has poems published or forthcoming in Natural Bridge, The Cimarron Review, The
GW Review, Salamander, The Powhatan Review, Inkwell and others. He currently
teaches high school in Boston.


	STORI tHIS mORNING bY bEN bERMAN All night long I’ve been plundering my past and here with me this morning is a six- foot-six mute. He has eaten the last scone and is now pointing at the pancake mix and rubbing his belly. Soon, we are joined by a scantily clad saddhu and his little monkey friend. The saddhu points at the pancake mix. The monkey screeches. I don’t have eggs, I tell them. But it’s no use. Let’s go, I say. We leave, head down to Stop and Shop when suddenly there’s a loud noise. Six kids come running past us and up ahead we see a young boy lying on the ground. That must be me, I think. We walk over to him and I recognize my old Lions cap and grey fleece. Get up, you little fuck, I want to yell. The Saddhu walks over, begins to prod and probe him with his trident. A young woman appears. (Old friend? Lover?) She runs over to the boy still lying on the ground and helps him up. She’s beautiful. What could have been! She touches his face, fingers his ear which is beginning to swell. He’s just staring at her, too embarrassed to speak. You Goddamned Sissy, the mute carves into his arm. The saddhu gnarls and grunts. Only the monkey screeches in delight. The beautiful woman lets go of his hand and walks away. The boy looks up into the sky and then at us – monkey and mute, lonesome dreamer and holy Hindu – the very things he’ll one day write about. ____________________________________________________________________________ Ben Berman won the 2002 Erika Mumford Prize from the New England Poetry Club. He has poems published or forthcoming in Natural Bridge, The Cimarron Review, The GW Review, Salamander, The Powhatan Review, Inkwell and others. He currently teaches high school in Boston.