Monday, January 26, 2009

Mortuary People, a Romance

They come into your house in business suits at 2:14 am. 
Of course you don't want to trust them,
or believe any of it. 
They glance around real quick at the living
to see if any of them are good looking.
Then they explain what the options are
for the dead. 
You look at the tile on the kitchen floor 
and try to figure out how many total squares there are.
When they walk into the back room,
you go sit in a chair and pull the draw stings
of your hoodie real tight around your face
and stare at the "Field Guide to the Birds Of North America."
When you hear them unfolding something metal,
you start writing down everything you know.
You picture them taking off the dead's
shoes and putting them down carefully on the floor
like rose petals for a bath--it's all part 
of their repertoire for romancing people to death.
You picture the toes of the shoes pointing toward 
each other.
Then, you hear them pull a zipper, 
and you concentrate real hard on those shoes. 
The left one says Now what?
The right one says I guess we don't have to go on those hikes anymore.
The left one says I guess it just comes down to this.
In unison they say Just us shoes.
You remember every time you said you didn't have time 
for a hike.

Sunday, January 18, 2009

Missed Connections

Where are you? 
It's me, your stalker. I can't reach you
with my words or by throwing bark chips
at your window. Need to connect with you!
I've tried watching you in a different light,
but the bushes always seem to be in the way.
You looked so pretty doing your laundry 
and dropping that DVD into the mailbox. 
God, it's going to be hard to commit suicide
outside your house when I used to be able 
to do it inside.

Saturday, January 10, 2009

Missed Connections

Always: Brown hair and eyes and lies,
told me you never wanted to be with me
that way. Actually, you said it looking
into my eyes at Lake Tahoe, after we 
both agreed we understood why people
wanted to keep it blue. I guess we only
agreed on one thing. But, still, love for
you grew stupidly in me like a tree
planted in a temporary pot. I'm the dumb
housewife who didn't know you needed 
space to get roots to get something at all.
You just looked so good in my door, 
I didn't have that kind of time.
And when you came back around,
I've pictured our wedding. I've pictured
how you'll yell at me when we're old,
a new branch launched green forgiving
into my gut. Every new geometry of living
with you flowering with your slight touch:
Pulling me back from traffic.
Demonstrating on my shoulder 
how she touches you in public.
You hate it. You brush an eyelash
off my cheek.