Susan Gorgioski

It's About This or That

It's about the roses
rearing to bloom. So
steadfast in green.
It‰s about a blue
overcoat - the colour
seems unimportant
swept along on a rush
of carrion leaves.
It‰s never about red
sunsets, grilled herrings,
crystal glasses. Never
about that distance near.
Never about this need
or that. And the wall scribe
writes : "Vin 4 Eva" in yellow.
We know this is not true.
Because the precise measure
of a footfall (to be exact:
one leads to another and not
the other way around) is a little, not more.

Detours on a Journey Through Humidity with Geese

Geese fly, over the five
grey steps
left behind by Marco Polo.

They follow his flight
from Venice:
a city on water where
Italian fish
dream of swimming

to Monte Carlo.
Its streets are awash

with drowning
umbrellas.

He did not care
for Orchids [this fact
is written somewhere]

he coveted silks, teas,

spices, and noodles. These things
[Things: a proper name
misplaced]

were so easy to sell-
[How many gold coins
fill a pocket?]

The lips
of cultured Venetians

are parched

in the wintertime,
in summer

months, they think

of Orchids, and hot,
humid places; distant price-
less things.

Geese do not fly over Venice.
Geese do fly over Venice.
Well-bred Venetians
never see geese.

So Many Ways to Say I Don't Care.

I slump my body onto a park bench
because I have nowhere to be, nowhere to go.

An woman to my right
waits for me to ask.

I tell my eyes to focus
on fallen leaves: crimpled, rain
heavy; most are a half-ripe red.

***

Because I am there, because she is
there, I ask her why.

The bird escaped, flew over the moon
on the last Moorish night.

I must comfort the woman:
your bird was ripped apart and eaten by a fox; your bird

wrestled with mighty grey powerlines. A steady pair
of wings could not save him. Your bird is dead.

***

I didn't have the heart to tell her the truth--
her bird was a seasoned traitor.

Behind lazy eyes, he would imagine the breadth
of freedom away from the sad, noisy
woman's clean black bars.

Venetian Dreaming

Divers discover a cave
beneath the city they called
Venezia. Two skeletons
lying side-by-side, wedded
to coral rocks. Fish sleep
where mouths once kissed.
They find cheekbone fragments
nestled in the grasp of four
fragile bones.

The fishermen are dead
to any sounds that dare
compete with the slapping
of waves against hulls,
of coarse nets combing
back the sea‰s tongues.
They hear the same speech
in every day as they coil
ropes of threadbare history.