September 29, 2021

About the Quiet Tingle of Your Leg, My Uvula, Unwieldy Heart

And you, guardian of lawn and wildflower,
tried to rip out my urtica dioca.
Still you ride me home
to the clicks between the cracks
your name a simmer in Cajun laughter.

I once wore curlers in my mother’s
gold Plymouth Valiant, wishing for prince
finer millinery, a division of dusk
slathering Polaroid jelly on toast
points, martyred on manual typewriters.

We contrive hurricanes now
confuse martins and maxims
walk free on blood signs, gentrified
Sangiovese too sweet, a few needles,
stupid books, strings to keep me pumping.

Nothing stays clean when your hands strum
my face, when my hands touch your hands
strumming my face

a mandolin or balalaika, the grave
disappointment of a droop
the rising cost of destiny and smoked mackerel.

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