Grim
Your fingers on my thigh, death, enough milk.
Whittle me thin, slice me birdsong. Hungry, death, for you:
too much plain bread, wooden table, cold room. Stick me
a brilliant tattoo, popsicle pink freak obvious
who needs you now. Take off your shoes, sit right down.
Done talking. Me inside you this time. I want the rot of you.
So you’re pretty -- end of story. What of sweat, death, kids, dogs,
wilted seedlings on the sill, the need to cut short silly, holy,
corrupt, whoring, corner-thin smoking paramour. Nice tux.
I got your invitation. Not a day I don’t lick the letters, X my calendar,
practice your phone number. I knew you were Spanish. Sequins,
your bullfighter ass, the way you cup my hips to dance. Why me,
the cliche: skinny white lady, over thirty, size 8, likes egg custard,
swimming in moonlight. My legacy is a three minute teflon pop tune
bad for you, filled with baby, love ya, done me wrong. It’s my truck
isn’t it. V6. You like the way it stalls at lights, its lack of bass,
tin receiver, rickety child seat, exhaust fumes, grinding brakes, rust.
How just by slamming the door I too cut and run like you. Shotgun,
brake to the floor, bridges freeze first, asleep at the wheel, death.
Doesn’t matter whose father is left at the coroners, whose wife spills pills
across the sheets, I admire that. Leave the hurtin alive. But here’s a hint:
no small death for me. OK. Consider it cataloged _-extra large, picture this:
90 years old, my birthday, my bikini, my martini, sucking on a stogie,
bogarting the kiddie pool while old flames and wanna be sparks run for grapes
grandkids tear up the neighbor’s rose petals for me, crabby friends
strafe off age, wave pistols in the air, shoot off ninety,
one blessed bullet having kissed the sky comes back at me.
Clean. Got that. Open casket. Groucho Marx glasses.
Lighten up, death. You’d have us believe you’re a rare bird, hard to find,
some exclusive white wine, clear cut crystal,
tall heels and silk stockings in war, death.
As if you were a lobster. OK so you are a lobster and a good cook, too, death.
And now the candles. And now the dark. And now the music softly.
Enough. Get on with it. Before memory, I know we spat
and shook hands as did every other fool taking up space in this room,
sold for a taste of strawberry, betting on morning sun slicing one more night,
rain on summer macadam, one more ice cube off my lover’s tongue
into my mouth, a crushed heart, going once, to the tall man by the bar,
going twice ?lavender sheets to the lady in the hat, going three times,
the long black knot of your mother’s hair--going, going, gone. |
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