Counting tendrils
on the popcorn ceiling,
I raise my hand in
an orchestral fashion
and the ground
pulls me
to the sky.
Phasing through
like a spectre,
I watch over you.
Your birdnested bangs.
Your eyeshadow
frosted,
glued to the lids.
Your body like rippled
velvet; I will drag these
ghastly hands across your
pale skin and
learn to push down
this wanting for more.
On the turn
around he nods
to me,
my time to solo
kindly please
I ask,
give me
twice round,
guitar man, leader
of the band,
twelve bars of blues
ain’t enough
to cut through
I’m gonna need
to close my eyes
and ease into
this groove
I’m asking please
grant me reprieve,
maybe this once
even three
times round,
a little space
to breathe
into this hand
sized harp I cup and
start to softly play:
give me that bass
oozing slow and steady,
give me that twisted
gnarled beat,
give me those
guttural bends
on your guitar strings
let me weave
these secrets
I’ve kept
under wraps
unexpressed
locked in my chest,
under the influence
of love loss, hard liquor,
fine weed
weave them all
into a pentatonic
tapestry
What does the tongue know?
perfect body ribboned and embroidered even before
the music starts she talks to you to anyone within range
a warm smile of childlike teeth shiny ponytail a few wisps by her ears
the music has her bopping in her chair she can’t help herself
one arm flies up wrist waving her body follows and she is
doing her own dance wiggle of hips and bum
shoulders and breasts shimmy she waves a smile
at the fiddle player when the moment strikes her
you can’t look away
the music done she throws arms around your neck
one of those tight body hugs you feel all over
she says she is 45 but you can only think of toddlers
their elation once they start to crawl and walk and bounce
“The world is my oyster” was the description from neo-Freudian
Margaret Mahler indeed the world seems to be hers to relish
this child of 45 certain that any one of us wants
nothing more than to hear her chatter follow her
pony tail bouncing before the band
I’m sorry
The words I cannot say to bring closure.
Little broken pieces that would threaten to disturb the peace that is.
Our “Run to You” ran aground and ran its course
And “I’m sorry” turned up empty.
The two-bite swallowing of *whatever* we used to be -a slightly bitter pill.
It didn’t have to be this way.
But we know it did.
And in the end, it was.
This is just to say
I do not know which sweet plums
you are speaking of.
Who even are you, and how
did you get into my house?
1.
Now the cuckold sees.
Mona’s eyes, he mulls, a problem—
adorable, pellucid irises green
as onions.
Fertile valley, tubs
of ornament and nourishment
on supple skin—porcelain
wrapped thin
in black transparent
nylon.
2.
His fumbling hand feels
through his pocket,
his denigration complete.
3.
She loves this.
