I tell a client to buy a bop-it
to use when they dissociate after sex.
I imagine a go-bag-hoe-bag
full of naughty knicknacks.
Wands, rabbits, plugs,
extra AA batteries so they don’t
lose the ability to
bop it
twist it
flick it
pull it.
I lost it all
In the pursuit of you
So I had nothing else to lose
When I told you I loved you
Grieving how I’ve grown out of my old shoes
Tattered and worn
Holes in the soles
But never my own
Always chasing yours
Healing isn’t linear
I wasn’t expecting it to be
But goddamn it I at least expected you to miss me
If you changed today
I don’t think it would matter
The heartbreak you sentenced me to shouldn’t have been mine to bear
You’re supposed to love me
You told me you loved me
But this isn’t love
I’m so tired of seeing your face
I’m so over screaming your name
In my dreams
On my bed
Your fingertips brushing down my spine
Speaking words that were never mine
Sunlight grazing the sheets
I wish you would leave me be
Let me be
Let me be
Leave me
Uncle Maurice buys an acre
with a green pond next to a llama
farm especially for Muriel,
his 11-year-old niece. He chops
a pile of cedar & builds an octagon
gazebo & spreads out a fuzzy
wool blanket where Muriel pores
over storybooks. He practices
harmonica & smokes Cuban
cigarillos, which are forbidden
at home. Today Muriel grabs
her dress-up doll, stuffs
a tote bag full with doll
clothes, a copy of Songs
of Humpback Whales, a sketch
pad of multicolored
papers & a box of 12 super-sized
crayons. A llama
brays, prompting a gentle
swaying of pond
like the ruffles of a prom
dress. In the shade of a Big
Leaf Maple they a nosh
on Braeburn apples & dark
chocolate. Muriel naps
& dreams she is a trapeze
artist with elegant muscled
legs turning three
somersaults in the cool
afternoon air. As the sun
heads down the peach
tinged skyscape Maurice rolls
her wheelchair close to the blanket
& bends over to lift her
up with both arms.
Usually it comes all at once in a rush,
I struggle to keep up at the keyboard.
Never arriving perfect,
I’ll have to fiddle with a line
here or there or leave it for a time
and wait for the sublime image
to reveal itself.
There are days I forget poems come
from outside me,
and I’ll try to wring one
from the damp rag of my brain.
But these don’t have
the resonance of a bird cry
in forest, nor the density
of a cow in the field.
They are strained,
like dock rope in a hurricane,
the moving man’s muscles
on piano day.
(This poem was made by rearranging text from Family Receipts: the Household Guide or Domestic Cyclopedia, 1915 edition.)
A lady should not compromise her dignity.
Don’t wear evening dress in daytime.
A lady should gracefully raise her dress above the ankle with one hand.
To raise the dress with both hands is vulgar.
A lady does not seek attention from a gentleman.
Do not use paints or pastes for adorning the face.
A lady should avoid boisterous laughter, undue liveliness in public.
Never yawn or sigh aloud in company.
A lady never allows petty cares to plow lines across her face.
Do not do rough work while wearing a white apron.
A lady should not stand with her hands behind her.
Do not lean to one side in walking. It is not only ungraceful, but it is deforming.
A lady meeting a gentleman will make a medium bow – neither too decided nor too stiff.
Do not go along reading a book or newspaper.
A lady should be frank and cordial towards lady friends, never gushing.
Do not permit yourself to be absent-minded.
A lady does not form acquaintances on the street.
Don’t whistle in public places, nor inside of houses either.
A lady should have a chaperone, a person of mature years, never a giddy girl.
Retain your temper under all circumstances.
Fists beat upon window panes.
The mud is very deep.
If you have anything to say to a lady, proceed singly.
You can take leave at the end of the street.
holds animated discussions
in the muggy Roman air.
Stalled in the marine layer,
their flights delayed,
they consider a swoop
for espresso,
or the fat fallen oranges
in our wet courtyard.
Their honk-chatter
wakes me from a dream
of home, far-off
memories, strange anger
leaking from bird-quarrel
into stories of sibling
struggles, mom’s
phobias, self-parts
dredged up
and flung
into the Roman
dawn.
he works nights arriving with a rumble as the fairy lights strung in my paned sanctuary click on
I’ve taken the time to get to know him beyond this windowed scrim
it’s a medianed street traffic
cartpushers strollers rough sleepers crossing is often not sought
then that one day
a whim a light spirit a boldness be damned
I stepped
to the middle then more then the final bit stood
upon his driveway offering my hello of tart berries
he didn’t say much I’ve learned this is character not disregard
he too feels the weight of rubber on road
sometimes disturbingly discordant to the history he like me has spent
that distance to curbs seems often insurmountable
I’ve found though we share the holding of space for what can come
it’s a recipe
just enough hope
a smidge of care
two parts generosity
a large scoop of humanity
and a whole heap of courage
watch the atmosphere
evaporate and turn
into
dust.
