Her hand disappears, knuckle by knuckle, plunging
up to the elbow into herself. The edges of the sidewalk crumble.
The street is splotched with grease. Green antifreeze oozes from
her undercarriage. Figs burst the sack and tumble
to lie mashed beside the curb.A hungry scarab
stretches its wings across her chest, feathers
like blades, its turquoise shell centered
on her breastbone. Water bubbles ominously
in a pot on the stove. She washes her hair in it,
a single strand at a time.
A cardboard carton of saltines takes up
most of the tiny bedside table,
battling for space with the box of tissues.
The nightly skirmish sends the lamp
plummeting over the edge to shatter
into porcelain fangs on the carpet.
The headboard is drilled with dozens of splintered holes.
Teddy bears dangle by their necks from spiked collars
with buckled straps, bolted to the wall.
She moans. The floor is covered with a scattering
of wet straw. I haven't seen her for ages, but
I keep her bra size written
on the back of a coat check slip in my wallet,
just in case.
up to the elbow into herself. The edges of the sidewalk crumble.
The street is splotched with grease. Green antifreeze oozes from
her undercarriage. Figs burst the sack and tumble
to lie mashed beside the curb.A hungry scarab
stretches its wings across her chest, feathers
like blades, its turquoise shell centered
on her breastbone. Water bubbles ominously
in a pot on the stove. She washes her hair in it,
a single strand at a time.
A cardboard carton of saltines takes up
most of the tiny bedside table,
battling for space with the box of tissues.
The nightly skirmish sends the lamp
plummeting over the edge to shatter
into porcelain fangs on the carpet.
The headboard is drilled with dozens of splintered holes.
Teddy bears dangle by their necks from spiked collars
with buckled straps, bolted to the wall.
She moans. The floor is covered with a scattering
of wet straw. I haven't seen her for ages, but
I keep her bra size written
on the back of a coat check slip in my wallet,
just in case.
Have to say I like what's going on here. The feel of it. The last sentence recalls, for me, the work of Bill Knot. An underrated poet these days. The last sentence rings an interesting perspective.
ReplyDeleteThough I'm not sure I like the "Teddy bears" image. Is this some kind of anxiety of influence thing?
(I wonder about possibilities if this would be broken into stanzas and separate lines organized around image and movement?)
affections and real hope,
uncle frank