there's something golden here

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. 

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

petunias

new tape on the borrowed Peugeot

my love bird loves to eat

as you can see.

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.