WHAT
DO I KNOW
Irises and babies have to push their way
into this world, meringue beats lighter
in a copper bowl, ants avoid alum,
and cast iron pans are best for frying fish.
I know to prune a peach tree, cut a sucker,
and drop dead from laughter once or twice a year.
I know it is possible to darn a garment with human hair,
the stitching so fine you will have trouble finding the tear,
and my husband will become amorous when I prepare
his favorite meal. If he should die first, leaving me alone
with arthritic hands and knees, I won’t be able
to trim the hedges or move the ladder. We will never
resolve the thorny issue of the second pond.
I know I will miss him; then I won’t.
Published in Speechless
MEAD
I want a man to pull
milk from my breasts;
know taste, fragrance,
honeyed intoxication;
lock his mouth on
a nipple the way babies,
with fingers like cloves
of dandelion trailing
swollen bosom,
aroused skin,
hooked areola, sucked,
swallowed, took me in.
These breasts no longer
work like bees
at the mere thought
of a newborn’s
squirming weight
close to the hive,
rooting like swarms
in fields of clover.
Collapsed now,
sagging, my
honeycomb ducts
wish to open
for man,
baby, sun,
seed, roots,
earth as mouth
Published in Eclipse
LISTENING TO LEONARD COHEN IS BETTER THAN….
It’s the slide in
his voice – enticing
to sublime – that
I ride, infused, under
sleep’s cover of bare
dreams: lips busy,
limbs tangled, faces
blurred: silent
angels all,
scuddering about. Thank
you, Leonard.
I hear rumble
in your voice, cracks
to slip through,
kneel of your knees
as you kiss the night
away and I slide in
and out of reverie
|
|