Monday, October 1, 2012

While Waiting to Talk to Cassie, and Later


Behind a row of black oil machinery
he saw me, coming of the men's dressing room,
and said, "I ask no questions,"
which isn't true. Because he does, I'm sure, ask questions
frequently, and sit with them like he sits with his pouting son,
because he's patient that way. And often
answers need to know we care before
they open up.


There were already in this place
three princesses who died lonely noble deaths
and smelled like rose petals
pressed between rice paper.

Lest you think I envy them, I say,
Lose all to the green, the everlasting
honeysuckle song, the stones beneath
your palm, the rollick of the free-born field bug
snapped from the blade by
the slightest touch.

For with backs turned, they step where there are no steps,
and I follow, moth like, their singed horizon.


Apple-brown clouded eye,
lift and entertain my last, my exhale.


If you are not me,
you are very close
to being what I was
at your age. Birds at the top
of the food chain.
Feet flying up to the bar.
Heartsore because
Lady Jane Grey
died for nothing.

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