She Cuts Down the Lakes So They Appear Straight
Her “at market.”
Her with a falcon on her shoulder
ordering the neighborhood boys
off her property.
Her smiling prim as
a Friends of the Museum brochure.
Her receiving a new sound
system on Christmas Eve.
She walks in my sleep into her life. She writes
“In her neck are the worms
that slide to the sidewalk
after a thunderstorm. They lie
around and see what they
“… and every mile my car goes
is another mile away from her.”
Her with a bitter look skinning
a carrot at her kitchen
“island.” Her in a nightgown,
floating around wiping dust.
Her and the falcon turning
their force-field faces toward her spouse
when he picks her up from work.
Their sleek car speeds toward
green. The fancy night
scatters its favors
Her hand understands
the grandstanding for attention in
the ingénue she advises; it grips
his face with the tenderness
of the falcon digging its clawed feet
into a human shoulder, and
he feels loved. She’s curated
some words about it
to drop at “supper.” Little
does she know her lipstick lies
in the blonde leather passenger seat.
It fell from her purse when she got out
to hear the visiting symphony.
It’s nothing, it’s nothing, here’s what
happens at the end: she gets it
after the concert and it’s nice
and cool from having been
in the car. The husband
plies her life with annoyances
and silly little kisses. The little poet-boy
with the bird claw sustaining his face
takes the fame and e-mails her regularly.
The horror never comes. If I lived
in this stanza I would never
sleep, I’d be so mean.
Author Discusses Poems