I Could Kill a Fly
It breaks my heart
the way the black cat runs
when I lower to pet her,
body sunk and widened to look
like ground.
Or how she’ll startle
at the sound of my feet
on wooden floors,
slink under the table,
give me gallows eyes.
She is the last being
I want to hurt,
her animal soul flashing
as she tosses a yarn mouse
into the air, bats and chases it
and fills my heart with love
at the unnecessity of play,
its absolute necessity.
This cat could kill a mouse,
playing it into
heart attack, and I could kill
a fly, and want to,
as a fat winter one
buzzes my head
like a swarm
of claw-filled thoughts.
A hawk swooped
a crowd of pigeons,
plucked one out of the air
took it to the next yard,
then swiveled it’s head to me
as it taloned the dead bird
but didn’t start to feast.
I know that look,
have felt it on my own face
when I’ve harmed my loved ones
with words sharp as glass shards,
the harm feeling necessary
as a next meal.
I need to tell my loves:
sometimes I want to scratch you open
so I can heal the wound
and maybe myself.
Ode to Pockets
Hoarder of pennies
used tissues
ticket stubs.
Humble holder
of dog biscuits
bird seed when I’m desperate
for friends.
Soft caves.
The space under
a breaking wave.
Tips of resting shoes.
What is the scale
of your loneliness?
Are you the woman
who couldn’t have kids
or the woman
who never wanted them?
A slouch’s comrade,
enemy of the hesitant
finger brush.
Private
black hole.
You help my hands
remember my thighs,
help the old man
walking down the street
hear his father’s
whistle, how it announced
he was home,
a butterscotch pulled from
your depths and now
a butterscotch
in the old man’s hand.
Almost.
You make your own heat.
Do you even know about the sun?
Custodian of found
dollar bills. Malcontent
pondering divorce.
Keeper of the suicide’s
rocks. I entrust you
with my infinite
to-do list.
Kimchi, or Ars Poetica
And again, I’m reading a poem I don’t understand—
maybe it’s about semiotics or sex
or about dominance
and submission, maybe it’s a smart mess
of carefully chosen words that hint at the randomness
of the universe,
unlike this poem, which is doing everything
in its power to swab a window
into sense,
by which I mean, to be clear.
It’s not choosing random words
because of their O sounds, the P’s—
postpone and parabola—
it’s not chewing philosophy down
to its driest, brittlest bones or
excavating the meaning inside the meaning
or launching an inquiry into the ‘nature’ of nature
which maybe that other poem is doing.
I’ll wait for my students, my poor students,
(I assigned this poem!)
to tell me what they think,
which means I don’t have to think, just react,
which is something I’m pretty good at,
like most humans today.
Not thinking
before they speak, not sniffing before they eat.
Yesterday, I made cheesy kimchi noodles,
which were a lot like this poem
and like the poem I don’t understand—
a mix of things that don’t seem to go together:
fermented cabbage, almond butter, a few leeks
because I didn’t have scallions,
chili garlic sauce, a dash of ketchup
(I forgot to buy sriracha)
a pound of spaghetti,
and fistfuls of rubbery orange American cheese
because I accidentally ate all the sharp cheddar
while crunching pretzels
and staring out the kitchen window
at the newish bricks holing up
what used to be a window on my neighbor’s house.
What didn’t they want to see?
I woke the next day puffy eyed
and fat fingered from salt.
I know death made me a writer,
or death made me the writer I am.
The Trip
“It would be nice to buy tickets for a trip to our Self”—Attila Jozsef
I am buying a ticket for a trip to 2019
one way, window seat
close to the dining car. On that train,
I’ll help the blind woman
peel foil off her juice cup
and watch closely all 27 miles of coastline.
I’ll praise the dolphins
and their smiling gray jumps.
When I arrive,
I’ll reorder the blackberry tea and baklava
and remember to savor
the walnuts’ darkness,
not only the honey’s sweet.
I will leave the curtains open each blank night
in honor of the souls who can’t sleep,
and I’ll open one eye at each sumptuous sunrise
to salute its quiet feet.
I’ll be the woman in the window
to watch and be watched.
I’ll make my dance moves more curious.
All my kisses will be passionate.
When I walk my city’s streets,
I won’t think about last night’s sad phone call,
the stairs I need to sweep,
the precise meaning
of the word hate, or how many calories
are in a beignet.
I’ll carry cash and give some away.
I’ll listen to the pulse in my ear and the taps
of strangers’ shoes
and call us a marching band.
I’ll bless the kids on the way to daycare
dangling from tired parents’ arms.
I’ll bless the parents twice.
This old new year
will be the best year. Cherry blossoms
will dazzle the branches,
the blue jays will dazzle the sky.
The bus stop’s drizzle will dazzle my eyeglasses
and we’ll all forget to feel cold.
And we will eat!
We’ll chew licorice, suck plum pits, crunch radishes,
melt butter against the roofs of our mouths!
We’ll lick cake batter, munch pistachios,
dip dark chocolate in black coffee and sigh.
All the sunsets, of course, will be spectacular,
all cries will be answered, and all laughs
will be loud and long.
Our language will be spoken
like a kind of bumpy humming,
otherwise known as song.
Our voices will be in a major key
except when it’s nap time,
which will come frequently,
and then we’ll go minor
to ease into the most colorful dreams.
When we wake up,
we’ll wake up together and no one will ever leave.
