Wednesday, August 25, 2010

Twenty-five: Confetti

*I intend this poem to be the first of a series of birthday poems--snapshots of what I am experiencing as my age turns.  I'll be twenty-five on September fifteenth.

I stole the peonies
that reminded me

of my great-grandmother.
They blossomed

through the fence—

which I did not mention
as I gripped the chain link

against a kiss,
also stolen

and displayed.
Heads of pink petals—

obscene cabbages
that shed their bounty

overnight, and left
refuse on my nightstand. 


I wake late
and hung-over
before the ceremonies

of a dead elder
and wedding friends.

Top down, we drive
over hills that were

In the back,
my eyes closed
against the rush and light—

sound of struggling

and illumination
of inner eyelids.

I sit in a pew,
my hair askew,

and proceed
to consume

the Perfect Body
saturated in wine.


My mind a child’s
folded fortune teller,

a different future
under every flap.

Mansion, apartment,
or shack—all of  paper.

But now I have a house
with bones and square feet.

I spackle
the bullet holes

and paint over—
exuberant teal.

My colored
and white crusted

palms testify
to the cover up.

I scrub them
in the sink,

laden with crystal,
and I think

how the broken wine
glass glitters

prettily, like spent
sweat or semen.
I sweep it up,

to forget
the cabernet

and his solid form—

We are enraptured
by shattered things,

which never catch
this light intact.


My loveliest dream
happened in a sewer:

Tiny orange
and fuchsia hearts

from yards of crepe

we punched them out

Our pockets filled
with extras

soaked in refined
sugar and  rum

stuck to our hands
and mingled tongues.

to take the city—

we slide grates 
and descend
to taint the water

with saccharine seeds.

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