The Simplest of Puzzles: A Love Poem in Nine Pieces
I.
We fit together so nicely, don’t we?
You and I, the simplest of puzzles,
your curves custom-carved for my arms,
cut to fit from the start.
I put them in their places,
and I smell your strawberry hair
and feel you smile against my neck.
Maybe if we stay like this long enough,
we’ll stick together
and nobody will be able to pull us apart.
We’ll live our lives like this;
we’ll be Siamese twins,
joined at the waist,
and I hope the surgeon says we’re too old.
ii.
During my days on the shoreline,
it was always a matter of time
before the waves washed away every home I tried to build.
If only we’d known each other back then;
we could have worked together,
building castles in the sand.
Maybe those castles would have hardened and turned into glass
and stood against the salty water
when it seemed like the world was complete
before we arrived.
But now,
I’m glad to be rid of the tide.
III.
Your lips are so pink
and so sweet to the taste.
It’s like a new kind of sugar
that isn’t bad for the teeth
and won’t make us feel guilty
unless someone sees us tasting too much of it.
IV.
The temperature is comfortable,
and the grass is healthy and plush
as we lay in it
and stare into each other:
a contest without a trophy.
The world is so beautiful then.
We both have hazel eyes, you know;
I can see
the rainforest reflected in yours is lush
and the soil beneath the underbrush
is united in sincerity
and a prime place for planting my seed.
V.
Time: a master of reverse psychology
and immature in response to warning.
We’ve got only two hours left,
but I don’t ever want to go home
unless I can take your heart with me on a silver chain
so I can wear it around my neck,
against my skin.
When I sleep,
I’ll keep it in a cherrywood chest
lined with velvet
so I’ll always know where to find it.
But I hope it doesn’t get lost in my room.
It’s very messy,
because I only clean it when I’m lonely.
VI.
The world is a giant top,
the sun is a cosmic yo-yo,
and the stars are glittery jacks,
but I’m not jealous of the galaxy.
Christmas is coming up soon;
will you tell Santa that I pass?
I can’t think of anything to ask for.
vii.
as a single-slippered cinderella,
i can feel the puzzle phantom-fitting
though the pieces are now long cold.
so i wrap myself around a pillow from the spare bedroom
and make friends with the shadows in the ceiling.
they help me pass the time.
viII.
The sun will always return tomorrow,
no matter how much you miss it tonight.
Is this a comfort?
Or a curse?
i burn, i freeze,
but let me sleep.
that’s when i smile.
IX.
I answer on the second ring.
You say that you’re interested
in putting together a puzzle today.
Hoping I Can Cook
I’m standing at the stove, so hot and tall,
hoping I can cook,
but I’m intimidated, short and small,
even with my book.
I search the cabinets, corners, drawers, and nooks.
I’m looking for the meat -
some lamb chops, chicken legs, or fish Dad hooked -
to put into the heat.
A veggie now, and lunch will be complete.
Put carrots in the stew.
And hey, this peanut butter sure tastes neat!
I think I’ll cook that too.
My soup is bubbling now, and turning blue.
I think I did it wrong.
It’s looking quite a bit like witches brew,
and smelling rather strong.
The stuff expands, explodes! Just like a bomb!
The splotches on the wall
confirm what I’ve been thinking all along:
I just can’t cook at all!
Ars Poetica
A pale ghost of a geisha
paces, walks places
crowded with merchants and dealsmen,
and peddles memoriam.
Her songs can be listened to
but never heard.
She sings and searches for a sound
but there is no pitch to express experience,
and, even so,
she pursues yet the key of frustration,
and it releases in her insect voice,
strange and strained and foreign-tongued
as she walks night by night, invisible, impalpable,
and trills for deaf ears.
She sings of a rose and of decay.
She sings of metals and of envy.
She sings of canvas and of a stupor.
She sings the truth and sings illusion,
while the living flourish
and the dying perish by the same.
The geisha’s ghost,
whose heart bleeds and burns and bursts within her,
chokes on the overswelling hemorrhage,
growing and pressing and wailing,
too large for the throat,
too large for the lungs,
large enough for the world,
but
oh
so
small.
Booth’s Wish
Keep your eyes wide open, if you can.
This show’s the last that you will ever see.
The shadows: wide enough to hide a man
and perfect depth to swallow one like me.
The voices quiet, ‘hush!’ and soften.
Lights dim low; act three begins.
You always tried to live like Lincoln;
now your soul will rest with him.
Keep your eyes wide open.
Fingers, please don’t slip.
My breath is harsh and broken
as I’m reaching for the grip.
And with a true
and sudden jab,
this knife into
your back I stab.
Your chest, it catches, hangs,
and you slump into your seat.
I veil the bloodied fang
and I hasten my retreat.
No one sees until I slip away,
and then begins the shouting and unrest.
And oh, how much I wish that I could stay
and keep my eyes wide open for the rest!
