Free Verse
In America
A child sitting on
the edge of a cot
in the cell of a jailhouse;
his head droops into his folded arms,
the toes of his stocking feet
skimming the ground;
10 feet above his head is a slice of light
onto sky and barbed wire.
On someone’s sidewalk there are teddy bears
and candles, photographs and photographers.
In a hospice for dying children there is wailing,
there are caresses and prayer, hope
for an end to grievous pain.
Not in this cell, in this jailhouse
no candles, no caresses; a slice of light
onto sky and barbed wire.
New York Love
Poem From L.A.
If Sir George
Seymour could have made love
to a run-down Jacobean manor house, he would have.
So understandable, to be so enamored.
If I could have made love to PS180, Shallow Jr. HS
and/or the 62nd Street station above Savarese’s,
I would have, had I known anything substantial
about making love.
Unnaturally cut off from my beloveds,
I tried developing new affections:
the Hollywood Freeway on-ramp, L.A. State,
Sam’s Deli downtown, and though none
could match first loves, they filled in
some gaps, even if with sand.
Then I met you
and learned substantially about making love.
Sand is no longer necessary, but
sometimes, even with your arms around me
insisting I am flesh and blood,
I do look beyond your shoulder
for the touch of something I can be sure of,
something that will never succumb to sand—
something like 180 or Shallow,
or the 62nd Street station.
Re-Imagining
a Legend*
Though not a
child, I lay in your arms
while you rocked us slowly, evenly.
Though not a child, I became small enough
to curl my body into yours, feel your warmth,
your heartbeat; hear you humming.
Your long auburn hair is not loose this time,
but braided, circling your head; your eyes
are clear and serene, looking beyond me
to some distant space.
Your benign smile secures me and my chin sinks
into my chest; I may sleep now, to dream
the childish dreams I believe in.
So, when you run the dagger through my heart,
quickly, to minimize pain, it is OK with me;
when you cover my mouth with yours to consume
my breath, I release it to you willingly.
You wrap my body in white linen and look at me,
kiss my face, my neck; you hold me close to your breast.
You carry me into the desert, your long, yellow dress
rippling in the wind; I am becoming full-grown again
but you are strong and lift me over your shoulder.
You are silent, all I can hear is your heartbeat;
you have no tears, only my blood running down
your legs to lick your bare feet.
*Provoked by the Pier Paolo Pasolini 1970s film "Medea",
starring (a non-singing) Maria Callas.
Previously
published by PYRAMID MAGAZINE - 2006
After Life
Opening my eyes
after dying,
an event as terrifying as I'd feared,
I heard a woman's voice,
an old woman,
then a man's voice,
younger but gray and whimpering,
seeking the woman's assurance.
I moved my head and saw another woman,
the man's age, drinking gin
on the rocks, licking the fingers
of a long-necked daughter, with a diluted
resemblance to me, ordering the placement
of tasteful summer stemware. I saw
an indistinguishable man poking a barbecue;
another man, bearded and fat, his feet
burning on brick, his wife wearing
the perpetual sigh of slab floors; a boy
with small-town eyes, a girl with small-town
talents, an infant with ineffectual beauty.
The old woman touched my face and turned me
towards her. Get up, she said,
it's time, to get up
and explain yourself.
I saw an old man nodding,
sinking through a mudhole in the pool.
I raised myself, pointing to him.
The old woman grasped my hands and set them down.
Come now, she said, we're all blood, here,
well, most of us, and we're all together,
at last, with all the time in the world.
Previously
published by PHASE AND CYCLE - 1995
