Song: We Get by Giving
We get by giving
and in getting, give again
but HOW
give his hand
my clit
and still
keep it
as my own;
how love
when loving means I lose
certainty
that sleepy peace my mother kept
against each Spring flirt;
how kiss
if kissing is the pain
parting lips
impart
upon the heart?
We get by giving
and in getting give again
but HOW
give all
for not?
I’ve heard you tell
I’ve heard you tell you’re prior kissing tales
Of boy-men, who given a chance start strong
Then finish first, or worse, go on and on
Without warming any water in the pail.
Why then when in the nick of time you find
Laying beside you in the morning light
A friend whose hand and heart and head are kind
Would you turn your back back to search the night?
…
To find the man you think you really want
Pay attention to the words, not the font
Being is Seeing
For Sonja
When we were children
playing on the see-saw
we saw seeing
as being:
when we saw a cookie–we ate it;
when we saw a cloud–we made it into a tiger, or a dolphin, or a rabbit;
and when we saw a flower–we plucked it.
There never seemed to be stomachaches
or worries about our waistlines.
We didn’t fear delusions.
And we never felt pangs of guilt
over Mrs. Demarcos’ missing Dahlias.
But now that we wear these glasses-
to read the fine print of our lives,
now that we slip them on
to turn a hem or code a text…
I can’t help wondering if we’ve lost something
when we gained this gift of glass;
So I take them off to look back,
to see again
the raucous laughter
of Linda Demarco, and John Bonasera, and myself
playing in our neighborhood swamp—
So I take them off
to see again
the sheer splashy fun
of ruining
another pair of shoes,
and socks, and pants
–despite my mother’s warnings
–despite my solemn promise
to never fall in again.
So I take them off
to look back
and then put them on
to type a line, read it over
and type another:
“When we were adults
playing with seeing
we saw
being
is seeing.”
A Sonnet for Sarah
Sarah—live wire,
snapping just to say:
“I am
empty—nothing—small;”
that is all
anybody is;
so what
will you do to prepare
a way from despair?
—without hope
your dreams disappear,
then what is left
is what is here
—only that much is ever clear.
Heavy Breath
I am heavy with the weight of my own breadth
tired with the want of wish
fear the power of hope more than the power of not
It is not the touch of your tender nipple to my back
I fear
or the brushing of the hairs of your sex against my skin
or the scent of your sweat and sex in my room
It is the next day, while stripping the bed
pulling the sheets up to my nose to sniff
before dropping them in the washer—that is what I fear:
that soap and water can wash away
yesterday,
can leave nothing of the slap of hot skin on skin
–can replace the ache of wanting
with the fresh of laundry
On the Corner, Men Stand and Talk
and their dogs,
no bigger than their hopes,
are small dogs,
quiet dogs,
waiting dogs;
dogs not moving ‘til some task is done
and then not moving far at all,
but home to eat and sleep
for tomorrow’s much the same.
