Do We Not Laugh?
You’ve been Shylocked,
as I dipped the tip of my nose
into pursed lips.
This is how Jews kiss.
You pinched a pound of stomach flesh-
though I owed you the rest of it.
The putto mooning the bridegroom
spews the same youth
that dripped from your head when we met.
Those pigments are permanent.
The sky has been blue since the fifteenth century.
We braved the air simultaneously,
watercolours and slaked lime.
I am dyed
blush pink with specks of cherry red.
Andrea’s heaven is missing your mustache.
Foreshortened figures scoff at rubberneckers.
Wide knees and plum feathers
trick ill-equipped eyes.
Your elbows are softer than mine.
Your earlobes are three-dimensional.
Leave it to a poet to counter her own metaphor.
The lake is better than I am
at being still
You asked if I knew about the stars.
I know about sacred promises
and letters squeezed into godless
H pegs in free-form holes.
I am sorry,
but I’ve gotten into the habit
of close reading our past
and if you could understand it
the significance of our words
would hijack your mind.
A Russian maverick
warned against mixing in
flour before sifting-
or was that in a recipe for sharlotka?
I have let him down.
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