3 Part Haiku (My First Love)
Who ever imagined
That I would go from a child
That did not use speech
Until I was two and
Had enough presence of mind
To begin using
Words as a form of
Expressing my love for you
As soon as I knew how
Who ever imagined
That I would go from a child
That did not use speech
Until I was two and
Had enough presence of mind
To begin using
Words as a form of
Expressing my love for you
As soon as I knew how
I had pigtails like Olga
when we still lived together-
the darling pixie of the 72 games.
She didn’t get the 10
for her Death Loop,
but bested Johnny Carson.
I was your sweetheart,
with fancy buckle shoes
and a seat on your bike.
In 76, Nadia was the queen,
perfect 10s for grace and precision,
but no easy smile. I wanted to be her.
When the divorce came,
you filled your home with art,
beautiful women, and white couches.
I knocked a precious leaf off
the sprawling jade plant,
and stumbled on the stairs.
You despaired of my
weight and my scars,
of my gracelessness.
I inherited your homely face
and soft bones, but failed
at being a math genius.
New siblings came along,
you called them Sweetheart,
and forgave them their messes.
Mary Lou flipped across the screen,
and graced our Wheaties.
I did impossible moves, too.
Which recent event do the crows mimic?
Or were they curlews?
Anyways, when they scream do they pretend to be 1950s businessmen?
Are they hiding in make believe bomb shelters, waiting for the Soviets to make their move?
Or are their shouts the sound of rioters, with bellows of “drain the swamp”
Jacksonian in nature.
Waiting to attack like wild geese.
Perhaps they were geese?
Did their honks remind you of car horns
when the bridge collapsed
drowning four undocumented construction workers in a watery grave,
three were never found.
From the stars to the stars
The drive home took twice as many hours
The sink scrubbed shirt was still waxy
A long conversation took place
in which I simply guessed at the meaning.
José from Espana told me all about Raquel in books, how I shouldn’t smoke, about the animals he used to have where he lived,
how now he missed…something
I could read his expressions
From the stars to the stars
The chamomile tea was drunk
The chickpea pasta cooked
The basil chopped, goat cheese plopped
The cold oatmeal with raisins, slurped
and water
My phone asked for access 8 times
My cat needed out and in 14 times
There were 6 good long pets, 3 cuddles, 6 winces
My plants all got water, and the night seemed to roll in hotter than the day
From the stars to the stars
The sirens converged, A car alarm and cop car
and the over modulation of multiple car speakers at once
Shook my eardrums and stole the very space away from me
From the stars to the stars
I accomplished a bare minimum
I answered the phone, I did crosswords
I thought about expectations as a source of repression. How space can be given to the parts deemed undesirable, to see them to feel them
Maybe accomplishment is only achievable
between the mistakes
Peace is only there between all the noises
The exceptional only bookended by the ordinary
busyness only functional between vacancy
I write a poem with your
head tilted slightly up
and eyes luring me- lips
not smiling, red lights behind you,
not familiar, but luring me,
and I do reach out to
hold you in my hand
& you asked me how long it had been
& you ask me how a woman’s soft breast felt.
A maxim from old Walt Foreman,
I’ve learned the proper way to grip a pair of pliers.
After every apology, I pull another tooth from my bleeding mouth
& place it on the altar of used-up chances,
an offering.
You decline.
