Room of 10000 Men
Civilized brawn drawing up
in corporate flannel, leathery chic.
Tests, the old mamma’s type fingering,
bad boy, bad, bad boy.
Men greeting men in this horsey fashion,
jerking chins, the calling card sized
stamp of position. Just who
will actually finish is a volume no sane woman
would actually interpret.
Judge. Marry recklessly. Toss
a salad for, perhaps, in the name of organic progress
& tough, tough choice.
Bad boy, bad, bad boy.
But I am no mother,
not yet.
& I have never–once, perhaps, feigning fluster,
chosen, like flinging a handful of darts blindfolded,
chosen again.
Oh. Thousands.
Volume, mostly: each the antsy, uninvited guest.
Each the maverick socked in a square grin.
Each the good sport. Each better.
The best.
The Call
Pure summons. Perfectly human.
Where did he get it? Not
from neighbors–the slap, slap
of their board games, jagged music,
gruff shouts from the lower register
as all Sunday they crash together a concrete
restraining wall in the dirt garden,
a wall running off wildlife with traps,
scarecrows & poison. No. Not there.
Not from them. Not from me, without
a whistle to my name, or from my overweight
cat staring hungrily from her patio chair.
Up, we look, pulled by sheer clarity,
minions, partners in solitude, not
a blade of grass, a man, or wildness
between us: Tile and carpet, an iron rail,
books, this little padded habitat.
Her genes kick in, the call to kill.
Fantasy, for me–man on the pole,
legs tight in jeans, tan thuddy boots
echoing when he touches down on my tile,
the sexy grin answering its own call.
Call me, call me, please.
Tricked, we stare as he spreads his wings,
startling the finches dolloped along the wire,
dropping notes of the mocking repertoire
to the morning glory, tile, gutter,
desolate twilight fluttering in.\
Cat Under Wheels
Dear doctor: How snide!
Sky closing in, I raced a tide thumping
black rocks, a white hammer, stamping
my heels, pushing me inland; clouds
wheels, bold & thick, rolling over the city,
my city, beetled in cars.
Curbside, a dazzling view
of shimmering street, each headlamp
a pearl dispersing carnival reds, pinks,
upside down starlight in a road slapped with rain–
doctor, into this it ran, a lusty dash
through bedlam, perhaps for love.
There was only the night,
only me, the click of your tongue,
the cartoon on your tie. Minutes
after the little emergency, thumped,
squashed, it didn’t know, but I did,
your blunt smile as the cat I saved, died.
Purr
From a distance, close, then thunder
forcing rhythm in my breath,
fixing it, this roaring comfort,
cat-scream numbing all he said.
The Plate
She floats on cobalt china,
holding four aloft, two
per flowery peasant’s sleeve,
two babies per wing.
Hair thick & horizontal, pigtails
lightly bound and fat–blonde
umbrellas protecting their tiny heads.
Her dress overlaps feet oval as seeds,
the train curled up at the hem,
like a fool’s cap.
A wild bohemian border binds
this precious plate, my stock,
my whole, my final inheritance.
Mother, the lady sings.
I know she is singing.
Mother-speak.
My grandmother loved her plate.
Tight in her perms and her pins
and her rubbery nylons, her aprons
flat lakes, the only wrinkles in her skin,
tugged loops freshly powdered,
no one left to tend,
to hush, punish, or bully,
she kept her plate, little blue moon, fairytale,
swiping her cloth over and around
the perfectly madcap mommy,
children chickadees perched,
children with shrieking grins
and unbrushed hair, naked children
secure on arms straight as rifles,
everyone poised in the lulling blue.
She hated my hippie parents,
especially my pregnant mother
in bell bottoms and afghans,
introducing my father to jazz
and barefeet in the house
and lentils
and sex.
But she loved you,
wizard lady, your kids
attentive as flies on a spill.
Mother-speak.
I am twice the age of my grandmother
and mother when they gave birth,
two sons, four daughters
between them, children born
too skittish and rueful and wise
not to drop, one by one,
from the worn, distracted arms
of their mothers.
Snap.
Plate of charity.
Plate of hope.
Single Again
1 btl chard
1 tube Crest
1 pkg pre-shredded greens
1 roma
1 frzn turk pt pie
1 bx cndms–or not.
24 silvery cans of moist cat food, assorted flavors.
Signature goods
tittered over by the doubled,
by the wed,
by the smirking man in rough jeans who has met me before–
cat. female. single!
Or imagine a cattle call in nothing but a bikini,
clinically scrutinized
until the cutie perks,
lunging knees & a fresh breast job,
oh drolly sexual.
Therefore holy.
Until the 35th year of attention
lends her pickings detriment: scowls & blather.
Age dawns–so this is life in the shadow,
scrounged perimeters,
a mellow cool inside.
A thought–maybe (seriously) it was me!
I didn’t like him
the way I knew he
should love me.