New Poems
There Are Three
My mind is sitting in the burnt-orange chair
across the room, pregnant with feathers,
smoking a cigarette.
We avoid eye contact.
Did you get off? I ask while staring
at the concaved space in the bed
she writhed and moaned from.
The answer I knew,
but it stuck
like peanut butter adhered to my
soft palette.
You obsessed, but I wonder:
Did you ever find your Greece?
Mythical island surrounded by
blue glass lined with white-washed
rooftops.
You found Aeneas in my loins
and ravaged my body while
my mind looked on and judged
our movements.
Your Demeter is still in the lawn
unmowed.
I drink to forget your curves.
My Iacchus floats
in my toilet bowl.
Bottles
In the wrinkles of your face
the future
you destroyed is visible.
But youth has not escaped you and never will.
How much money did you get
from recycling bottles?
I still remember the pale
green hue that rose
from their uncapped necks.
Sunlight shone through to your sill.
You told me you had to do it.
In between your thighs
I saw your whole world;
beauty and the images you
burned to forget your past.
We sat, over-looking the lights
of the city
while the cinders of cured
stop bath kept us warm.
I entered you.
Down below,
among the alleys, the wars of heaven
and hell unfolded. The gentlemen
clad in thrift store tuxedos took witness
until they grew tired
and took shelter in their refrigerator boxes.
I am no longer nestled
in your bossom. The desire
to rub your pocked cheek and
whisper in your ear
swells and boils over.
You didn’t have to destroy your body
to save your womb.
Tips of fingers running through your
soft curls and my hot breath
on your temple.
But there is no contact.
