Cropping

Melvin asks you to clear stones from his fields -
he promises good food, a stocked pond,
and currant wine, brewed with berries stolen
from wild fowl, from bushes near his soughing creek.

I gather black feathers while you work,
maybe I'll make jewelry, maybe I'll make a wish.
At night I dream of birds:
they say give us back our wings, our fruit.

Every year the stones must be cleared.
I wonder how you stand the stench
of pigs and chickens, crowded like subway patrons -
the smell of money Melvin says.

I picture animals with briefcases,
in trim suits, with cellular phones.
And hungry crows circling at night,
dropping stones.

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Body Paint

She brushes water on recycled paper,
on the backs of utility company letters,
ads for free siding, carpet cleaning,
buy one pizza, get one free -

her hair is confused, blown by wind in a still room.
Tangled and matted, it pleads from her head -
like sculpted walnut of a ship's maiden prow.

She picks used charcoal from last night's
cold grill, a cheese grater, a good china
plate, and builds a pile of dust
mixed with drops of cardinal wing red,

nicks from the sharp stainless.
She blends, pours the mixture
in her hands, stands over an empty image,
still moist and buckling,

then separates her palms,
and breathes as dust descends.
What holds, stays and reveals her,
what does not cling is blown away.

A Debt Repaid

(First appeared in Meridian)

I haven't decided if I'll go to my father's funeral.
It will require so many things; the purchase of a chic black dress,
Italian leather shoes and bag to match, a sophisticated hair style;
and there's the hat question; wide brimmed or pillbox with a veil?

I'll have to practice my walk down that aisle, not too much hip, past pews
of relatives.
I know they'll watch to see if I dip my fingers in holy water,
genuflect, bow my head, carry a worn rosary laced through my fingers -
they'll look to see how tightly the beads are wound,

and if I kiss the cross.

And where to sit? Each seat seems too hard. Better I should stay home,
do laundry, than pay respect to a man who loved nothing. Absolutely
nothing.
But I must be planning on going; I've saved two half-dollars for years.
I stole them from him when I left home. That's what he remembered.

I am the thief, the liar.
The one with no deeper thought in her head.
The one who would amount to nothing
but a whore on the street,
counting the money of men.

I'll deposit his coins one by one in my new purse, walk straight on that
marble floor,
pause for the slightest moment, still the gathering with a sharp laugh,
bend over his last bed, raise my manicured hand,
place those two silver pieces over his eyes, convince myself they will
remain closed,
and on my father's judgement day, I will welcome judgement.

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Asparagus

Hoping to satisfy her carnal nature,
he fed her asparagus with his fingers
as she reclined on the bed.
Her only thought was
"He's overcooked it again."

When I Retire

I'll sip Barolo, earthy and mature,
and relax in an open-air cafe,
when I retire to an Italian shore;

I'll be thin and tan, my dress haute couture,
the sea will leave shells clinging to the quay,
I'll sip Barolo, earthy and mature.

The waiter will flirt, I'll coyly demur,
resist, save the tryst for another day,
when I retire to an Italian shore.

I'll write my book, act as observateur,
record each nuance of the aged bay,
I'll sip Barolo, earthy and mature.

If asked of my past? I'll keep it obscure,
if pushed for detail, I'll affect dismay,
when I retire to an Italian shore.

And maybe these words will signify more,
than they seem on this particular day;
I'll sip Barolo, earthy and mature,
when I retire to an Italian shore

My Sounds

Nothing to do,
no where to go but bed.

We screwed in a one-room apartment
with film thin walls
and cockroaches with names.

He liked when I moaned,
so I moaned louder.

I never realized
how friendly he'd become
with the neighbors,

until I heard his voice
through those unfaithful walls,
laughing along

as they mimicked my sounds.

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