Two Poems (July 20, 2010. Issue 19.)
Spring Cleaning
In the back corner, buried
beneath boxes of old sewing materials—
stripes, floral, houndstooth scraps—
beneath shoes worn so much
they look like they are made of anthills,
between a cardboard box marked fragile
and a nylon bag cocooned around a tent,
there is a book. A photo album, creased as if mocking
my age. I open it and see birthday
cake smeared on a small plump peach-
shaped face. I touch my cheeks
and feel the fuzz.
I miss her.
A Love Poem To My Open Knee (Since Closed)
We met when I was eleven. Maybe it was a coincidence
that I was the same age as the shape of my naïve legs
(the year before the sprout of calves and thighs
stretching like latex). We were introduced by the sidewalk,
not the ideal matchmaker but we were both so young. I have to admit,
I did not find you attractive.
You were all angles and drip, awkward and slouched. At first
I did not care for how I had to care for you, you asked too much
of me. Even when I tried to cover you up, you insisted on being seen,
wanted me to introduce you to my friends, tell them how
I had stumbled upon you. (I sometimes tried
to smother you with layers of gauze and rubber. I’m sorry.)
We argued and you went away slowly. Sometimes I wanted you back
so I pulled off your top and bent you into my palm. I held you.
You cried like a light bulb
without a shade and taught me how to be bare.
Sometimes, I forget about you until the clock whispers at me in ones.
I know you have forgotten about me, but we were good once.
If bone turns out to be a tough lover, I know this great sidewalk,
a threatening bastard. Maybe we could meet there someday.
Until then, your grave will continue to shrink on my skin. |