Tag Archives: poem

Girl Reading a Letter by an Open Window

There are 33 bobby pins
placed strategically in my hair.
You cannot see, but,
my toe, the right one, is planted firmly,
but not too firm as to show my effort,
on a curling blue X, meant to mark,
without even the slightest misstep,
exactly what a woman like me,
standing in the long history of women, drinking
the pen of love, is meant to be —

can you see the ripe horizon
through this open window?

I wonder, feet planted,
lips taught with powder, curled ringlets
itching the rouge of my cheeks
how long I will stand here while they stare
so long at my white eyes.
They focus lovingly on the detail
captured by Johannes’ golden hand,
perhaps until they realize
that I cannot read.

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As I Rise

This morning I woke up still-drunk
and dreaming.
Booze-drowned and down,
I browned eggs,
white-iron and yolky.

When an egg is fresh,
picked ripe from the viney booth
of the coop,
it will sit like glue, yolk globed
in one place.
When they are old,
found way back in the box, an egg
white might run, slide
loosely on the side.

The fridge smells
of milk-wine and vinegar.
In my repose, achey and gloomy,
I brown my bad eggs
with a glossy impression
of yesterday’s evening;
I gobbled them wretchedly.

Self-Portrait as a Firework

Lit, I spread my arms and swallow the sky
and when they come to find me composedly

sleeping, they find only dusty remains
of kaleidoscopic stars, gossamer greens

red and blue; Indeed I shone too brightly.
Sizzled and fallen, the crowd marched home.

Exit, alternatively, a toy of light
reeled upstream, snagging on nothing.

Glimpsed once and imagined for a lifetime.

An Ode to Tattoos

An Ode to Tattoos

I like the way you have doctored your body.
I like the way, when I read the slow curve of your hips,
I can also read the script in your head.
In swirling black letters, it reads: Swing Through Life!
I don’t know what it means, but I’ll swing through you,
if you know what I mean.

On the top of your thigh you’ve drawn a portrait of your dog,
the one who is dead now. He will be there to pet
whenever, forever.
I like your thighs, even that one.

On your left wrist, it is written: Infinity.
Or, rather, there is a symbol I have come to learn
means infinity. And it is written right there
on the thin of your wrist!

When I look at your figure, naked,
it is preferred, I wonder
what kind of seeds you must bury, deep
under the thick of your skin
to get bouquets like that.

Painted Meridian

Painted Meridian

Everything is the same shade of rose-colored,
rose-watered elastic, pink, pink flesh. I reached
deep into the caverns of the butterfly cave and pull
out torn-up ashed pieces of rose petal, pedaled.
It is pink, soft and brown pink, like the color of bare
back after sun, morning glow yellow. Pink, pink rose,
deep-watered, soiled, splashed rose, pinked up, perked
up after grocery green picnic, tied tight like a bow.
Knotted, double knotted, tied tight like a pink, pink bow.
Wavy-weird, dreamy, creamy pink and white, light pink,
the color of her flesh under clothes.

I want kisses like the underbelly of a kitten.
I want kisses like the red-
pink, puffed-pink of her lips; let me touch you there.
I read that the paw pads of a kitten are made
of the same pink stuff as his cold, wet nose. Everything
is the same taste of rose-colored rose water and I
have pressed her flesh to colorlessness.