Besos
after “The Act” by William Carlos Williams
Cut it down
tongue clean the blade
of caught-off-guard
the sudden beauty
of never-lasting
Chop it off
preserve the ineffable
wilting improbability
petals browned
by fingers’ oily mar
Hack away
and hermetically seal
the exhale
visible only
to the naked eye
Scrape your tines
against the bark
so new foliage will have
no choice but to form
around your mark
Mirage Sale
It looks like a typical Sunday afternoon garage sale: card tables littered with disposable belongings, people standing around with baby strollers and dogs on leashes counting their change. But this is not a typical garage sale. I want everything they’re selling and I can buy it for cheap.
There is the sterling silver baby rattle my grandmother gave me when I was born: sixty four cents. The ratty, musty smelling stuffed animal I slept with until I was eighteen and then lost in a move: forty two cents. The beaded necklace my best friend gave to me in the third grade which my mother accidentally threw away: ninety seven cents. The first journal I ever wrote in: thirty three cents.
I watch the people rummage through these precious things. “The price tag says $1.96 but it’s all faded and worn. I’ll give you fifty seven cents.” A woman bargains for my prom dress with the pink taffeta and sequined collar.
“Daddy, I want this one!” A sticky-faced little girl pulls on her father’s shirt. He brings out his wallet and pays for my very first bicycle—the one with the training wheels and flower basket. Two dollars and three cents.
I start to panic as I watch these strangers leaving with my things. “Wait!” I shout, reaching for my purse. “I’ll give you whatever you want for all of it! I have plenty of money.” I fumble for cash, credit cards, checkbook, but all I find are receipts.
The woman behind the card table looks at me impatiently. “Looks like you’re out of luck,” she says.
A young boy pulls the crank on my old jack-in-the-box, the one that terrified me when I was young. The clown pops out and the boy starts to cry.
I can’t buy back my misplaced things. I can only stand back and watch as these people, these strangers, touch them and bargain for them, not knowing what anything is really worth. It’s painful but I can’t turn away.
The woman behind the card table counts the change in front of her. It isn’t much, but she appears satisfied. She looks at me again, suspiciously, as if I might try and steal something.
More people come up from behind me and push me away from the table, greedy for a sale. There’s nothing I can do now but watch, caught in the shuffle of these lazy Sunday afternoon shoppers.
Reminders
My teacher can’t read Bukowski—
The lines in his poems are a bathroom with
a stained toilet seat and dead wasps behind the sink.
Open-mouthed musicians with
yellow fingertips and sour breath.
I can’t go to the drive-thru car wash and
watch soapy water pound my windshield.
I can’t use green shampoo that smells of
cheap cologne and is meant for people with dandruff.
I can’t accept a gift when the giver tells me,
No strings attached as I untie the bow.
I can’t date a man who thinks Docksiders and
white athletic socks are a suitable combination.
My teacher gets her car washed without
ever unbuckling her seatbelt.
She accepts gifts freely and writes brief
thank you notes on cards she buys at the drug store.
Green shampoo doesn’t bother her
as long as it makes her hair shine.
Footwear isn’t an important factor for her
when it comes to choosing a mate.
Bukowski is my favorite poet—
his words always mean what they say.
If he was there when I brought home
report cards, all C- and D, he would have
smiled and said only, Don’t try.
Then he’d turn back to his broken down typewriter
and drain his last sip of red wine.
Ars Poetica
The voice on the other end of the line
was a frightening echo of my own, my
mirrored reflection in a crowded room
where glimpses are all you need.
The echo asked for Dad, by the wrong
name, the wrong age, but it was not
the echo’s mistake.
I struggled with the lock on my bedroom door
that I had never learned how to use.
In their bedroom I heard Mom struggle too,
with words she had never learned how to use.
After the locks and words had served
their purpose, I left my room, every floorboard
sweating beneath my slow, bare feet.
My glasses forgotten beneath my bed, all I saw
of Dad descending those carpeted steps for
the very last time was unremarkable hair and flesh,
no eyes pointed in any direction at all.
