|Oct/Nov 2005 Poetry Special Feature|
From the percolator
to the pepper mill, to the stovetop
& the tributary guilt of this moment,
I am lost in the eastern hemisphere,
that porchlight in the body called
aftermath; here kitchen is blackbird,
thistledown & apricot nail polish,
what I remember of Narcissus—
soft goosedown eyes, a cruel mouth.
He is dead. Water reflects flammable
objects: the Celtic cross spread
with its first upturned card, La Mort;
a page torn from the apocryphal book
of hope; silhouettes dressing in the dark.
Grief is inescapable, is fat man
& little boy, that sharp stainless knife
in the hands of the jazz musician
breathing erratically on a bedspread
of blood. I wipe what I spill: coffee,
sleeping pills, someone's jar of worms.
Sometimes I think of all the indignant
ex-spouses in everyone's lives
& try to collect lies like seashell pieces.
Sometimes I go so far as to stop looking
into holes. That black one. His sky.