Tag: poetry

Facts and Figure

My husband is cloaked

in information.

When he slips my pelerine

off my shoulders,

the heat of my borrowed home

sinks into my chest,

exhausted.

Mouth on mine,

he breathes empire into me.

Always his tongue studded

in stats.

Interested,

I absorb his mind.

I absorb everything.

I absolve the world of nothing.

My husband kisses me

with countries I’ll never see.

With all his facts he

warms my figure.

The Shadow

In the shadow behind the drapes,

heart aglow and beating,

living illustration of a lost

red charm.

Allergic to light,

he is happy when unnoticed.

Children talk about him.

Houseplants have faith in him.

The sun-soaked parents don’t believe.

The oysters were alive

when mother extracted

Her pearls.

It is in the dim hiding

places that being is born.

Frightened,

the children watch the feet

that peep out from under the drapes

shift.

Day and Night

The dawn makes much of me,

flooding as she does

over the delta of dark.

The cowardice of night,

the dryness on the dark,

amaze me like

the paranoia at the foot of

my bed,

gnawing his hands

and begging for bandages.

Dawn always grows up.

Noon holds me in

a vice grip,

and I yearn for my shadow

and his praise of me.

Slowly,

sun turns to chaos

and things separate.

Evening falls like linen

on my hair.

Holier,

I brave the coming dark,

already thirsty,

as the light flows

to her next season.

Cut Short

(The celestial sobbing

of a year cut short.)

When the world ends,

we will all be high,

laughing at the telenovelas

we have lived.

The fire will clash with ice.

But where it all really

breaks down

is the anticipating

burning in the dumpster.

Like champagne

the old distrust bubbles

out from my upturned tumbler.

Now there is nothing

but trust.

(We all know how it ends.)

Math and Music

Oval angels

make math difficult

The leaves have turned white.

They know what that means

and don’t want to

talk about it.

On paper,

the universe is as dull as

a towel.

The universe as a theory

reminds me of an

old riverbed.

In practice,

it is a high, drunken girl

looking to get away.

The angels always

keep the music,

numbers just out of reach.

Man Avoiding Death

In the well of his eyes

a songbird drowning,

his last note shaking

the earth like an aftershock

Carrying a cane,

he mocks old age

and then beats him with it.

The various compounds in his

organs like chasms of

darkness sewn up into life.

In his neighborhood

the children shirk their

playful duties

break all the rules of youth

by filing taxes

and reading Schopenhauer.

In the bushes,

a sharpened surprise

awaits him.

Easters

The cloth Christ

hangs from the

peg on the wall.

My voice is in a vault.

God gave me the gift,

and he holds the key.

If I ever speak again,

my voice will be an Easter.

I am cold.

God’s son will warm me.

Lent falls off my life

Like a damp towel.

The vault door opens.

My singing rises in

praise of the risen.

Pastels

The lake was created

with pastels

and sometimes I smudge

God’s work a little

when I pass through.

In my little canoe

I row with only

a nebula for company.

The gestation time

for my poignant pointers

is seven days.

My pace swells.

On the shore,

so many men link arms

with so many women,

drapes and windows.

Ideas are born to separate.