Catkins on a Silk Tie

Regarding what I said the other day:

A deep square leatherette chair,

you in your Fair Isle sweater, are,

Lips pursing; chin, receding slightly.

A pen like a cigarette, or baton

from your arm caresses up

the daffodil wall

absently.

When we were in bed

my labia drew you like a magnet,

or your fingers drew me.

Now a child noisily drains a juice box

and steam spits from the espresso machine.

The tarry Sangiovese sky

deepens

and you drop

like a page from my surrealistic pillow book,

the hole of your arms,

a mine of gold lies,

where I fall

red ochre of rose dust

in the middle of Alice,

“D’ya think I’m pretty?”

sparkles from her spigot

and a cardinal lilts

in a budding lilac,

a coterie of kisses

as I wait in my st. eve’s,

my Neapolitan panties,

catkins in gin

enthusiastically.

Devendra wants to be a math teacher

Devendra says he does not give a rat’s ass, guns it and scrapes hard, crushing the downspout drain with his jitney cab just to prove it.

The club owner is standing outside smoking, but he just drives past, no apologies:

Shit happens—just keep going.

That’s what he says.

I jump in fast up front and hold on.

He drops the men in back at another club.  It’s raining and they want curb service and umbrellas.  He has a stash in the trunk.

He gets back into the car, wet, huffing.

Is it alright if I . . .  I start.

Hells yeah, he says

and shoves his last tip bills at my purse.

Drunk boys bang on the hood, humping the cab and rubbing their khakis on my window.

This shit, he says

and drives off.

Takes me to his room.

No touching.

He lets me be, lets me plop on his bed.

My heels are soaked.

He props them by the radiator.  The paper insoles crack and rise.

He lets me dry out as he sits cross-legged at the end of the bed, smoking in the dark.

I watch the red coal of his cigarette breathing with him, neon glow, a watchful dragon with a small jewel in its maw.

He lets me cry and sleep.

I draw on paper bags and dream of mountains and Mother.

She says the garden is fifty fucking percent trash trees and briar, as she leans on her hoe, smiling and smoking.  With one hand she sweeps her brown hair, tucking it under a tortoise shell:

Just keep talking and crying.

It’s alright.

She’s going to hang my clothes out tomorrow on the sun porch.

And tomorrow is a grapefruit slowly shrinking in a bowl,

an avocado pit skewered in a juice glass,

egg curry and toast.

Devendra bought me a tin of watercolors.

I spend the morning

dropping small white dots

on the red brick mountain,

One thousand times over:

cherry blossoms of snow.

Tasting Dandelions in January

I sleep naked with you

and awake so pleased

to see the white,

snow-covered lake

of my skin,

free of clothes

                       lines

and run my fingers

                             down

to where you bravely launch

your craft.

Far From It

Every morning I tie

a capelet of sorrow

around my neck,

letting the velvet

plush, as dense as

a cattail’s, weigh down

my shoulders,

my glance~~

even now,

when Grandmother fluffs

her feather bed,

and the ground hugs

a comforter of white.

I measure time in bowls

of tea,

like Goldilocks testing

her tongue:

Too Hot!  Too Cold!

And each night

I fold paper cranes

into my sleeves,

bright and jagged

as the sorrel

and frisée,

still green

in the snow.

Designed to fail

And so I befriended a little boy

and he trusted me and I him.

We’d tell each other stories

from our day;

mostly true,

some pretend.

He told me of the backyard,

the dirt world,

the little berms of daisies

and snail swirled ponds.

And I gave him my wisdom

of the grown-ups:

how we think that they’ll

never lie or let us down,

but inevitably they do;

they’re designed to.

And in that moment

of disappointment,

we bow to them,

and acknowledge

their broken muddiness,

as also our own.

Later, I heard that his family

was moving away.

I didn’t know where.

I stood on their vacant lawn,

trying to remember my number

to leave for him on a receipt,

a cookie fortune in my pocket,

a cracked toy tractor plastic piece.

It began to snow and I still could not

write the number where I could be

reached in case of emergency.

Even if I did remember,

wouldn’t it get left behind,

somehow, only to become

a scooting gutter canoe

in the thaw.

 Oh how, oh how

I didn’t want to let go

the sticky frog summer

of his smile

when he saw me.

 Oh how, oh now

to know

a phone line would never come

close enough

to save me.

Never Trust a Sailor on Dry Land

The Addict and Me, Part IV

Never Trust a Sailor on Dry Land

Back to the romance, as it were.

We arrived in town.  I was smitten.  S. stood in the blazing sunlight outside the bus station in his suit jacket and jeans, a cigarette dangling, backpack slung to one side, joking with his mom on his cell, smoky blue shades over his brown eyes, just the right combination of urbane and offbeat.

Mom held court at a local coffee house and we went to meet her there.

She got up from her table that held a small pile of Smithsonian’s and newspapers and other journals.  She took off her reading glasses and gave me a warm hug.  I liked her immediately.  Mom was lively and chatty and I watched as S. brought his energy up to match hers.  But she was a mountain stream in spring, a freight on the open rails; she kept rolling.  S. began to flail his hands in agitation as he tried vainly to interject.  I instinctively reached my hands across the table to hold his, to calm him.  His mother had about a hundred suggestions on what we should do.  I hadn’t eaten anything but a scrap of a donut for about six or seven hours and was famished.  This brought approbation from her.  What was S. doing?  Here his guest was about to faint from hunger.  Mom described a few places nearby and their menus, at least what she would order.  There was a nice deli down the street.  The ice cream parlor on the corner also had sandwiches and soup, perhaps.  Didn’t they have soup?  Would I like some soup?  We could also go to her place in the foothills and have fresh Colorado peaches and ice cream.  S. and I finally decided to go to the deli.

At the deli I ordered an Eggplant Parmesan sandwich and S. got a Rueben.  We sat on a bench outside as I inhaled my sandwich and S. called his sister.  She had just recently had a baby, her first, the first grandchild for both families, and they were all getting together at a restaurant for dinner.  S. was too nervous to eat his sandwich.  I didn’t know it at the time, but he was nervous about my meeting the baby.  He thought that since I didn’t want children of my own that I hated them.  It wasn’t true.  In party situations, pets and babies are practically safety nets for the socially awkward.  At the restaurant, I politely said hello to everyone and then got down to cooing over the baby.  She didn’t or wouldn’t judge me or ask me any embarrassing questions.  I could just smile and hold her little fingers while the grown-ups talked.  Since we had just eaten, we didn’t stay for dinner and as quick as we were in, we were out. All was well in my eyes.  I was entering S.’s world and I wanted to know everything about him.  There was so much I didn’t know, so much which would take a long time to understand.

S. and I had planned to go hiking in the Rockies the next day, so we had to make a grocery run to get gorp and such.  I love grocery stores, especially in new places.  I find fruit and vegetable displays mesmerizing, even if I’m not buying any.  Here was a large bin of peaches for less than a dollar a pound! The butter had a picture of an elk on it!  I needed some coffee and yogurt and granola for breakfast. We picked up some gorp, but I also wanted chèvre and crackers. We needed to buy a knife if we were going to get cheese.  I had promised to call in to a friend back home who was worried about me flying off to see some guy I had met on the internet.  So, while S. was off hunting for a small paring knife, I called my friend and told him everything was fine, S. was just off looking for a knife, ha-ha-ha. 

In my mind, everything was fine.  I was having a good time.  But as I started to look at dried fruits and nuts, I could see that S. was getting fidgety.  “I just can’t stand fluorescent lights for too long.” he said.  OK, we could go.  He apologized again in the parking lot, “I needed to get out of there; it was taking too long.”  As we drove back to his place, I wanted to put my hand on his thigh, his knee, something; but I felt a wall had gone up.  He was silent. 

He had a small room in a house with space enough for a desk and a bed.  We put groceries away and climbed on the bed to watch a movie.  There we were, inches apart on top of the covers, but those inches felt like a wide gulf.  I saw his eyes start to flutter shut and I thought, “Now!  I could just lean over now and quickly kiss him.”  But he soon opened his eyes and kept stiffly far away.  I didn’t dare breach this gap between us.  He looked almost fearful.  When the movie ended, I left to go to my motel room and sleep.