Poem of the Week
For Ms. Ridgeway, Now A Mother
We were virgins, you and I,
trapped and long-faced in a town
we arrived in.
It smelled like college
and pillows
and coffee after midnight,
hidden kittens
and late night driving,
of hugs and make-up.
You were my best friend,
my only friend,
my push-flower,
my red star,
my right-side warmth.
Remember when you told me
penises were gross
and I rolled my eyes like God
and you put your cigarette out
like a movie star
and said,
"I don't think I'll ever have sex,"
and I acted an adult
because I had just started?
I can never be a father, darling.
And here I am
alone
in Texas
and there you are,
a mother with three lumps
and a brave-armed husband
and just as beautiful as
I remember
when we were
the bluest in town,
the whiplash pretty-pretties,
the center of a party's circle.
You are just as beautiful Ms. Ridgeway.
Just as.
My La Jaconde,
my silver looking glass.
- Sunday, April 11, 2004 On The Death Of A Constant Lover I
I heralded you.
Your shock and grasp
Played dozens of instruments
Tuned just so in my mind.
In the first moments of meeting,
You carouseled your arms through
My shield of protection-
My armour of solidarity,
That strange energy that kept
The crackles and pops
Within my own limits-
You forced me like hungry machines
To share them with you.
I wanted to kill you straightaway,
To keep myself from harm,
Yet the thought of your death
Frightened me to solitude again,
And planted you firmly
Into my quicksand life.
I forced your hand into mine
With vacuum strength.
What would those forceful kisses bring?
You stealing away at the side of my face
Under satellite dances and
Stars with nothing better to do than
Give up in a too full sky.
Your teeth were their colour,
Your eyes their bed...
This landscape above,
This dotted heaven that screamed,
"You fools! Even we cannot stay together!"
It seemed the sky foreshadowed all,
Ring around the moon or not.
- Saturday, April 03, 2004 Taking A Nap With Banshee And Wolfie
My head is where my feet should be.
The sun is telling me it's six-thirty
and shooting straight through the blinds.
The quilt my grandmother made
is folded under a feather pillow-
a slender reminder of your love.
Aberdeen is slowly chiming
and you jump to the bed,
some huntress looking for sleep.
My heavy eyes open for you-
A smile and a quick touch
and another jump-
A too-full tail across my nose,
a sniff of my lips
and two new sleeping pillows
at my head and my side,
My tortoise shell lover-
My black sister with a white burst.
You fall asleep before I do
with the sun through your ears.
- Saturday, April 03, 2004 poem of the week archives