June Poetry, Week 3

Day 15

Time

I want to kiss him again,

to move close enough to breathe 

his neck, the spice of cologne he used 

to wear when we sat for endless hours

in his car watching the beam from the light

sweep across the rocks, when we lay together

against the dune for what felt something like forever.

I want to tell him something that will make him stay.

I want to tell him something that will make him stay,

but the dunes have washed out to sea, the rocks painted

with other names. The light still crosses the beach

where we spent nights thinking there was time,

endless hours of kissing. His cologne wafts

there still as if by magic. Ghosts stride

close enough to touch, close

as a kiss once was.

Day 16

Half June

at the zoo, lazy

in the heat, captive lions

in cages dawdle over meat

thrown by keepers

without vacation time

who scratch their balls

not unlike the gorillas 

over in Enclosure #16.

Half June,

school just out, families 

frantic, driving the highways 

to get there, rush around,

cramming their vacay days

with adventure. At the zoo,

it’s lie-around-in-the-sun

time, watch-the-humans time.

Someone told me 

it’s all happening at the zoo:

Simon & Garfunkel holding a retro

concert by the monkey cages.

Skeptical orangutans keep time, 

grin that orang grin 

every time I do believe it

echoes off the bars. 

Half June,

and every day since May 

the zookeeper is loaded by noon, 

flask of rum on his hip, 

next to his stun gun, his walkie-talkie.

Moms and dads warn the kiddies:

don’t get too close, don’t 

think the bears are cuddly like Teddy.

These are wild & dangerous beasts who might eat you.

By half August, the human animals

will start heading back to their own cages.

Day 17

RSVP From a Friend

for Zibette

Wish I were there, but the peas go in today,

asparagus is nearly done and needs blanching.

I’ve weeds to pull, tomato plants to cage,

& every beet needs extra water to survive. 

You could send me an ocean breeze

to cool my garden & my sweaty brow.

Wish I were there, but you know what I must do 

just to face what’s coming way too soon.

Wish I were there, but the peas go in today

I send my regrets, that’s all that I can say.

Day 18

Modeling Suicide

Dressed to kill, well-paid, and chic,

these girls pretend they are Plath

or Woolf or Sanmao. In a fashion

spread for Vice, suicided

writers are en vogue today.

Kneeling before an open oven, 

wading too deep with a heavy stone, 

self-defenestration, gun in mouth, 

Oh just buy what we’re selling, won’t you?

Modeling suicide, role of models

to sell haute couture? Gilman’s model 

sits deadpan in front of yellow wallpaper, 

plays out her role as woman down,

chloroform handkerchief the latest 

accessory along with her designer rings. 

Wrists slit open at the sink, fashionable 

in her Parker-esque dress and pearls. 

For a dreamy-eyed young writer 

in the projects, I fear 
              post hoc, ergo propter hoc.

Day 19

Unpacking

Dishes in the sink scowl like faces 

of the children who pressed 

against our rental car

begging for bits of candy, pennies

to bring home to their mothers.

There’s dust on every table 

and sill. Ordinary life ticks 

welcome home 

from the kitchen clock. 

I am wearing the perfume

I found in the duty-free, scent

of paradise that will linger

in the dampness beneath my breasts

long after showers should have

washed it away. There’s magic

in it, an alchemy of paradise

that does not release me. 

We drag the suitcases

from the car, bump

them up the front steps, 

roll them over the threshold

as far as the front parlor.

Too late to bother unpacking,

we’ll sleep in our clothes, dream

of where we’ve been, of blue-green seas 

and flowering plants we cannot name.

Day 20

Sentence

If I’m to die, if you would kill

the poems in me, then poetry be done

in black weeds and shreds of chill

words be spoken as the ruddy sun

goes down. Needle readied, a cocktail

of poisoned ink, a glass of nepenthe right

here on the table for me to drink. The wail

you hear is me, raging against the dying light.

The pain of rejection I have felt each day

grows larger in the coming dusk, no more

will I write free of what jaded critics say

about what makes a perfect metaphor.

           If you sentence me to die to poetry,

           know this: poets' words live beyond me.

Day 21

Inside

In a velvet box, in a corner

of her suitcase, kept discreet

after all the years 

at Willard Asylum, years 

until she was no more, 

a silver rattle, engraved: 

Maire, b. 1898. Mama

Tears river my cheeks, wet

salt no remedy for wondering

about the baby girl, Maire,

lost to her mama, her mama 

lost too because her tears

would not stop on schedule, 

her heart would not heal in time 

to deem her sane. 

In tissue, a christening dress,

lace hearts at the hem,

pink ribbons frayed and old,

tiny velvet heart pinned to the bodice. 

Oh, Maire, where is your mama 

now? Is she holding you?