Categories
Poetry

Poem: Neither Top-Heavy Nor Bottom-Heavy But Nothing in the Middle

Le Petit manteau, Edouard Vuillard.

A taxi with its light on goes

nowhere, everywhere, constantly

moving, shining.

I pick you up on the corner

and have my way with you—

tick the meter tick—

apply fake tanner insert

fake teeth and eat once

nightly so my nightie

sticks to my stomach and hips

the way the hourglass is

neither top-heavy nor bottom-

heavy but nothing in the middle.

A taxi with its lights on can be

clean, smooth, safe. It can offer you

eggs in the morning

(howdoyoutakethem)

Lean across the table.

Of course I should

tear a pink slip chasing

after the man with no shirt and a

mouth hidden by hair, a

wrinkled cigarette in my coin purse,

communicating in flashes, flashes,

glints of eyes.

Categories
Poetry

Poem: I Suppose You Want to Ask Me What Happened to My Head

EC

Unless, of course, all you see is

a too small and oddly shaped

appendage to my hips, soft and

padded like lips

Ships of chills scrape

from my toes to elbows

which chills made my

shoes too tight and

hats too small walked

around today like a lumpy

balloon, whistling love

songs cynically

An ugly bird in a sweater

from the Gap sang back

to me, and I cried. It sank its

mini straw from the coffeeshop

into my scalp and lifted me—

I ran for the

steeple. The bird didn’t

like this one—snake on front sign.

The minister there

covered people in sheets,

hands grazed calves invisibly as

they pulled on white like water when

suddenly the Word, the aptly named

Rock of Salvation,

introduced itself to my

occipital bone, unraveled

fibers that have been sewn

for twenty-one years

I wake up here in

black, in bed, find wood

splinters in my head, hydrangeas

long dead, breasts overfed.

Categories
Poetry

Poem: Acrostics Are Cheesy

EC

Gee, an ant in a sandwich,

wine on linen, your

hair in my mouth.

You, with your short legs

and moustache and lack

of appetite.

I stand and dance,

entertain but trip on the

checkered cloth.

Tea in the basket shivers,

a school of orphans.

A dog lowers its haunches

nearby.

Are your yawns from my conversation

or from the bread?

Es juebebes—drinking Thursday,

you say.

Tee shirt underneath your navy,

no bloody marinara stains.

Are you lying face-down

because you can’t hold your liquor

or because you would like us to be

horizontal together now?

I take my ash

and mark your forehead.

In some lights you look

right through me.

Gee, a mosquito in a mojito,

wrinkled checkered cloth

in laundry basket.

Es juebebes, mon cher, es juebebe.

Categories
Poetry

Poem: Oh Lord, I Am Painting Again

Three Tahitians, Paul Gauguin.

Up

            stairs

                        cheek

                                    flushed

                                                  black

                                                            muscle

                                                                        strong!

Down

            stairs

                        pale

                                    blue

                                              March

                                                            rot’ry

                                                                        dials

Base-

            ment

                        acrylic,

                                    rouge

                                                band

                                                            plays

                                                                        loud.

East

            in

                        silk,

                                 merc’ry

                                                 drop

                                                            slows

                                                                        blood;

West:

            new

mother’s

                                        warm

                                                  sheet

                                                            steels

                                                                        child.

Categories
Poetry

Bedsores

Suicidal CNA works seven to seven,

Puts old brains on ice,

Marrying Jell-O and incontinence,

Sterile confidence,

Bony prominence;

Pressure always from the ground up

From twin beds, lone twin beds,

Presses up from all sides, eats

tendons, hips, heels;

Cemeterial chiming way down the street

Jowls cascade down cheeks,

Candles melting;

Clocks on every wall in that emporium,

Faces pressed up, hands make quiet bony cracks,

Louder at dusk;

She tells you, “Let it contract.

Loosen your fists from your bedrails.

I hear the clocks too, ground up

Buff face of white bone.”