Friday, December 21, 2007

The Touch

I want to hear the slap
of your shadow as it hits the floor,
the pins and needles of water falling
tap to tub. I'm tired,
and what you know
about me will soon be written
on a postcard and passed
in the night.

We're down to the last few bites.
Those who are in the habit
of eating parsley off their plates
will not help us.
Wine has cast its blood-shadow
across our cheeks.

I've come in off the street
to confess these crimes.
We have several mothers in common,
and while they plot our deaths
I want to give them something
to talk about.

I've misspelled my own name so many times
and still I remember every syllable
of every spell.
Still I remember you humming
along as the ghosts
drank water in the kitchen,
as our mothers counted our fingers and toes.

~Jen Currin

Monday, December 17, 2007

Blue Like That

She was a darling with her roses, though what I
like is lavender for I can dry it and nothing is blue like that, so here I am,
in my arms a bouquet of tragic lavender, the whole history of Southern France against my
chest, the fields streching out, the armies
killing each other, horses falling, Frenchmen
dying by the thousands, though none of love.

~Gerald Stern