Monday, August 29, 2011

Friday, August 26, 2011

What I am afraid of

The space between the hedge
and the house. Steep slopes
and spiders. What you murmur
yes to in your sleep.  Dead bolts
and dead batteries. Hour glass
shapes and the way sand moves
through small spaces. Waiting,
and waiting. The carcass with teeth,
the beach the day my tire blew.
The intangibility of these cells,
the gusto of my body’s body.
Mostly, how you sometimes look
at me and I have to look away. 

Sunday, August 14, 2011

another poem about a pie

You were at the part of the pie
where you use your knuckles to shape
the crust. You worried about texture
and ratios of flour to water. All the while,
I was staring at your hands. You are
a man whose hands tell exactly
what you did that day.

There is integrity in kitchens too:
knife marks in the counter, creak
of oven, gurgle of ice maker. The pie
could not get in the oven fast enough.
There was flour in my hair, a clapping
in your rib cage. For a moment
we stayed very very still.

i know it well : august lately

chocolate zucchini bread


new tape on the borrowed Peugeot

my love bird loves to eat
as you can see.

Monday, August 8, 2011

Early Cascade 

Lucia Perillo

I couldn't have waited. By the time you return
it would have rotted on the vine.
So I cut the first tomato into eighths,
salted the pieces in the dusk
and found the flesh not mealy (like last year's)
or bitter,
even when I swallowed the green crown of the stem
that made my throat feel dusty and warm.

Pah. I could have gagged on the sweetness.
The miser accused by her red sums.
Better had I eaten the dirt itself
on this the first night in my life
when I have not been too busy for my loneliness—
at last, it comes.