To That Other I
The symmetry of our schizophrenia
is absolute if plotted
like Da Vinci’s man.
Cut me, do you too bleed?
Is your left hand not haunted
by a chimera
that taunts it with the actions of my right.
You leave the odd clue
but it always confounds,
you never explain–
offer nothing by way of introduction.
Some new outfit? An unfamiliar telephone number.
A subscription to a minor
interest magazine.
My half of our mind,
is of half a mind
to set a trap for you.
Crouch behind the shrubbery
at the penumbra of consciousness
and burst forth when you’re at your most loquacious,
break in with an admonishing Boo!
If you intend to continue to
ignore me this way–
be warned–don’t assume
that I’ll hang around.
Don’t think I’ll wave
or nod should we pass on the street,
don’t
expect me to offer my hand.
Tourists Take a Late Lunch
Cheap little restaurant whore
waiting on this hungry table.
Your modesty is barely contained
by two stretched sheets of PVC plastic,
bound with taut elastic.
Are you the dish of the day
or just the cut-price service?
Spread yourself, centerfold; go down,
let them lay before us a dish
of crustaceans in the undernourished
tureen that is flanked by the bulge of your ribs
and the erect extremes of your pelvis.
Your mouth shall serve as the finger bowl.
Your thick hair, the serviette.
Love’s First Cut
She
could no longer recall exactly when
she’d realized
it was love. Had it been
one of those
forgotten mornings when the sun’s
first scarlet rays
reflected with presentiment
against the
sterile steel, like refracted light
in the cut faces
of her grandmother’s
engagement ring;
was it the rich crimson
river that they
washed away each afternoon
which reprised
romantic souvenirs,
anonymous
valentines from her youth.
Perhaps an errant
bolt of electricity,
a misdirected
preparatory stun intended
for those hanging
out or passing through—
had it sparked the
twigs of lonely tinder
in her heart? Could
it have been the loss
of innocence
implied by the speckles
of blood and
gizzard that each day dappled
their
crisp white work suits?
© 2002 Graeme Bes-Green
Click here to leave a comment on these
poems.
Please mention title/author when leaving comments.
