A Tense Dinner
A short ways north of the resort beaches
we watched the young boys heave against the sand
to free their dhow from the land.
They were not headed far, a safe
distance: the shelf off Zanzibar.
The sun which set that beauty scene
was not forgiving, sweat them lean.
For hours they took turns to dive
for octopods whose whorl of limbs
cling in defense till they break
the surface and are beaten free, still alive
and fresh, destined for a ready plate.
Across the table her eyes rarely met mine,
though they tracked the speckles of teriyaki
that slapped against my slurping cheeks.
Behind me she must have seen
the boys in their dhows, the gleam
of that low sun charring them
into the splendid background.
Phantom Papercuts (meant to be read aloud)
Sometimes I feel the imaginary slip of paper
over the pad of my pointer finger.
I feel the edge,
first as it glides over my skin,
harmless, and I feel
when that edge finds purchase within
a groove of my identity,
begins to dig, and I feel
as it sinks and separates,
and finally, as it slices in;
the briefest violation.
For minutes this sensation will repeat and so,
I’ve become quite afraid of every singular sheet
and its remembrances, especially that thick,
serrated stationary used for handwritten
letters, the worst of which are signed
Always,
Ambien Entries (WUI)
I
The pills are white and small
But they do not shine.
My vision is slowing down.
I hear baseball announcers circa 1945,
It’s the bottom of the ninth
And the woman in my pillow case
Is collecting straw and dirt off the floor.
II
The only way we talk is through our arguments in my head,
Back and forth we jab, I’ve a reply for each lie you’ve fed.
Then you begin to say the things I wished you would
And then you say the things that always were.
I hate our conversations, why must they repeat?
III
Please, council, hear me through!
Why should we? We have lots--
I have thoughts need hearing too!
Oh, do you now? What sort of thoughts?
Well, I don’t know…
How intriguing. Are you slow?
I want you to hear me and make me great.
That can’t be done, it’s too late.
Best Forgotten
The park again, of course I should have known
but must that family be so near, faces
wrapped in mirth and Christ, a kite? It has flown
since we’ve been here, deftly arcing traces
of the wind which I wish would whisk away
your bubble words, that floating gloat remains
in spite of young beliefs begun to sway
too much... 'Remember when we's might help rein
in this feeling you have lost.
The family’s
toy was still in flight until the wind kicked
and something snapped and spiraling unease
brought it tumbling to the ground; who knew those
sidelong sounds of your would wreak such havoc,
render me useless as a wounded kite.
Performance Art
(dead horse metaphor)
Your stage swirling invocation
alone is enchanting, but then your monologues
begin and the illusion grows,
sprouting upwards and around-
the crowd draws nearer.
Family and friends and passerby
fade in and out as deftly you slip
and slither between sets.
Then red is smeared across the wall by me
or some stage hand and art is born through
your improvisation so sweetly sick.
Sometime later the performance ends
and you and your props bow under
a harsh spotlight.
Bravo.
Now it is time for another act,
because some lies
we live, and some
we leave behind.
