blank black eyes
look beyond and stare
this time leave
the trimmings
where they were cut
and fell-
on the floor
to form her
grand fungal tour
veinbound beneath
shadowed earth-
lightless leafs
strung out loose
ready to receive
the drop of
brown-husky flesh
sapless veins
cracking fresh
* after the painting ‘Picnic’
by Nick Gadbois
I think it’s odd that you see me in this way
Like I’m deformed and mangled
A heart of stone
A sinner with no humanity left inside
Hollow
Uncaring
Vile
You make me out to be a fucking monster
Praying for me to be made clean
That God transform my heart to one of flesh
And might I ask: what the fuck is wrong with you?
You see my person as one that’s never been so repulsive
You see my form as harrowing and cold
In reality, I’ve never been so human
Never had my heart beat so true
Never lived so fully
I’ve never been more me
God, am I glad that you’ve shown your true colors
I never should’ve given you another chance
I never should’ve trusted a mother to love her child without conditions
That would be too easy
Scuffed shoes, white blouse skirt the house—neck, a hung glass charm and chain—
lawnmower takes to rolling—blue fleas
fly in each other’s paths as fireworks on 4 July.
Here in my harness you carry me,
your husband’s lists of abuses nursed
and lucky mosquitos land
for supper on my pink, exposed skin atop my head—
you talk—silent this morning I stare astounded at your smile
trying to hide my sheepish bulldog grin,
and telephones rang when light parted
the curtains, you wondered where to begin, where with
the children, could the dog wait to go outside
in this rain? Grass tall uncut for two weeks—you placed
four paws in muddy garden, wiped each off,
and this morning the babies asked about their absent father.
The male gaze some say is much too much for modern women,
no matter how forthright or well intentioned.
He craved a taste of lively Kentucky and the south end of Louisville
where the women were hard enough for any man around, or Spain
where they laughed uproariously at a flirt,
and when the oceans in their eyes boiled—dropped to the tiles, thrusting
men down, slipping
brass rings in their noses
like matadors and nudged these bulls through the town.
But then, you were indifferent.
He said “I can’t even say ‘I love you’ anymore, and it strangles me.”
She takes off her shoes while the kids carry on,
and walks in the grass, the downpour bounces off her ankles,
and wets her pajamas—I whine begin to shiver
let me in Mommy where my chicken breast warms with sticky rice
in a bowl—rugrats fix their flapjacks
about to scoot away without their socks—she hears the phone ring
but won’t pick it up. She thinks:
There’s time to cut these ropes
before I choke.
Devil has my family
by the throat.
I resolve it is not his doing.
I say it is.
If I could speak through my bark and wiggles, I’d toss my head up and say—
I’m here for you Mommy. In and out of the room you go.
You’ve told me kindly—keep off the couch. I can hear you crying
as you dry me from the drops and change my blue vest. You cry
everyday, I know, and
I can’t stop with your scuffed shoes and white blouse skirting the house—
Before you were you, she knew you
You were the guy in the surfer shirt
The guy with the East Coast accent
The bellhop at the Belmont on the Cape
You were the one who gave up his seat on that packed Greyhound bound for the stick
The one who nonchalantly caught Willie May’s homerun fly and handed it to her
Before she knew you, she heard you in three-part harmony
You called her on the wind, warped record lyrics from played away grooves
You were the one who took her to a singing metal scuplture
The one who knew how to burn ice and melt fire
Before she heard you, she felt you
You were the familiar energy that snuck up from behind, two kids playing yin and yang taking up where they left off
You were the one who remembered, fire likes wind, the one who got too close to the flame
Before she felt you, she saw you on a train from D.C. to Mass.
The lulling motion of the train still tracks beneath her feet
You came in her dream, upstairs in a big colonial house on the Cape,
When she finally saw you, she knew, she knew you . . .
So many times I’ve found you
In the eyes of someone else.
In the hands that hold like a belt.
How can a memory never happen?
And while we’re still plastic fresh—
Packaged,
the first imprint is blood red.
We hide love,
like the life of a woman.
A mess, abundance,
why are we ashamed?
It’s the duplicates that take from you.
Our habits outline like fingerprints.
We lay hands all over each other—
again and again. Guilty,
We leave everyone with strawberries.
We stamp out love like hickeys
ready to mail.
Our ripe ravages them and leaves
fading trails of fragile skin.
Love is a bruise we grow to bury better.
These days I am a fragment
all my attempts of contact, just ghosts
forming, then
dissipating subtly; you’re left wondering
If you recognize me at all.
Seems clumsy, love
a hazard younger eyes flout.
Regret is
the sludge that fills your shoes
making steps difficult
the tears that fill your eyes
clouding clear vision
the waxy ear buildup
muting all messages
the slouch that leaves you
gasping for air
the acrid taste on your tongue
ruining your food
But you can
remove those shoes
wipe those eyes
q-tip those ears
straighten that back
bite into a fresh, crisp apple
And make a plan
I have known the art of work
drawn long and gray across my father’s face
as the jack arches and repetitions
of brick courses, soldiers and sailors alike,
lay grim reminders that no collar joint
connects sincerely the man and the monument.
No crack control saves, no cantilever holds,
no expansion anchor roots to satisfaction.
Though I have seen the sublime Victorian weave,
skillful Flemish bond, rolling caramel buttresses
at supernatural angles, dogtooth and crow stepping,
cathedraling into the branches of ancient Osage orange
and American elms. An art of work I was once
proud of and even teared up in saying so. But since,
I have grown to know he hated every second of it.
