connoisseur
putting me in the back i�ve watched him now he thrashes through i�m ready to be �there isn�t anything he�s not saving me he�s saving me behind written words
you�ve got neat handwriting-- all the words on the pages does �talk to you soon� is any of it--anything?
you�ve got neat handwriting ching-chong charlie
other kids used to chase me even now i walk around i screw my mouth shut, wearing pants
when my father cleared out, as much as my mother gasped she gave them to me to try on, she cried.
we both looked at i threaded it through hooking my thumbs nautical connections
the sailboats and i now they teeter and totter we�ve all been two boats sway early morning caution
it�s late but i can�t tell his head rests i hate them because thunder, on lightning
she�s the gleam like a proper woman, like a pretty woman, i follow her i�m always bringing they are false admirers, what elicits praise i stand on tip-toe, my mother stands i nod in response.
descending from a high you fiddle with i nudge my fork you, desirer of our edges, but sitting with your
of his liquor cabinet,
he said i�d make a
fine wine yet.
reach for other bottles
of different sizes
shapes and colors.
the cabinet and says
he�s still thirsty.
uncorked,
for his hands to
run over me.
excitement causes
my insides to rise
closer to the mouth
of my bottle.
good to drink,�
he continues.
for later.
for never.
for a boy,
and yet
i scan your letters
over and over.
are clear, but i keep
thinking (hoping?)
there are other words
behind the ones i see.
mean you�ll call?
is it an invitation
for me to call you?
is it anything at all?
for a boy,
but not neat enough.
chanting sing-song nonsense
and pulling at the corners
of their eyes with their fingers.
with my fingers pushing
at the corners of my eyes�
pushing them in.
afraid that the voices
of those children will escape.
she unearthed dusty hangers
with tiny-waisted skirts
that i�ve only seen her wear
in faded photographs.
and gasped,
she couldn�t be
twenty again.
but they pinched me
in all the wrong places,
my father�s closet,
she saw a gaping hole,
while i noticed a belt
dangling on a door hook.
the loops of my jeans
and buckled it.
in my two front pockets
i argued that there was hope
after all.
have been waiting
for the river to thaw
like hungry children
eye frozen steaks
in a water bath.
unused to legs after winter.
their once slack sails
balloon in the wind like
cheeks on a smiling face.
upright too long.
in each other�s direction.
i lean backwards and
another body meets mine.
how early it is.
his glasses on the sill
are too weak for me
to read the clock.
in the crook of my neck
but i look
out the window
at the flashing yellow
traffic lights.
they urge me to
proceed (with caution),
but i�d rather idle here
at a red light.
in mama�s eye.
she is modest,
strolling by windows
without a sound.
she makes men look
up in her passing
to catch a glimpse
of her slip of a figure.
and as mama says,
i try to learn.
but she�s too fast
and i stumble behind.
up the rear,
holding her veil.
drawn not to me, but
to the trophy in my arms.
from their lips
are not my abilities, but
three plexiglass columns
sprouting from a base
on which my name
is engraved in gold.
looking past the cluster
of people in which
i am the center.
in the doorway
clutching her purse.
our eyes meet,
and she lifts her chin
in my direction.
perch on my column
built out of praise,
i push through the crowd
and return to my base.
the utensils and plate,
and only smile
when your setting
is a mirror image
of mine opposite.
farther to the left.
your fingers reach
over to return
the tined instrument
to its original place.
my hand intercepts,
we rub knees
under the table.
symmetry in all things,
don�t seem to notice
a greater imperfection
lurking other than
the silver and china.
yours and mine,
do not meet--
dissimilar figures.
you play with numbers
while i shudder at them,
and dabble in words.
pale hand in my
yellow-brown one,
i adore this lack of order,
hoping our minds
match on this.
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