BITES
we are comprised of bites
some welcome, some not.
Bites & what is left surrounding
the bite plus some itches.
Appleseed ticks, grossly swollen
grapes of black blood, mosquitoes
so many goddamn mosquitoes
& their cousins, the gnats, the midges.
No good idea goes unpunished.
No good comes out of stagnant pools
criss-crossed by waterskaters &
dragonfly squadrons out for a good time.
Mysterious bite marks
along my waistband
ankle itches
new & gone.
Midday moon like a balloon
of love, veiled in possibility
yet with one contemptuous eye
for rockets & rovers &
other lunar assaults.
On the dark side no one
can see all its bites &
its itches.
BAKING HEARTBREAK & NOT ENOUGH
I am trying to wean myself
from sugar, butter,
& I will not call you
or to think of you in any way.
Every.
Day.
I have read that sugar
leads to diabetes & hypertension.
The sweetest memory,
our limbs entwined,
is a second-hand recollection,
empty calories
that lead to distraction, regret &
late night ice cream remorse.
Warm caramel is just sugar
& butter plus heat.
Who needs the double-takes,
double scoops of
heartbreak & fudge sauce?
My teeth are bad.
Who needs honey or dates or
the false promise of strawberry jam?
Give me blackberry.
Full of seeds,
brambles and thorns,
picked from a hedge.
Hands stained with juice,
scratches, dust and August.
“Your love is better than chocolate”,
cooed Sarah MacLachlan
our summer of separation when chocolate
melted & clung to the wrapper.
I was saving it for later.
Now I have a kitchen scale
to measure ingredients;
instead of half cup,
my glass is over a hundred milliliters.
That heap of flour is perfectly,
accurately dumped in.
Today I am not beating
brown sugar,
of 70% dark bars
broken into chunks.
I will not be making cookies,
brownies or cakes.
This is my rebellion.
At best, banana bread made of
fruit that has become mush;
add sour cream & extra vanilla.
Honey.
Let it cool on a rack
next to the phone so quiet,
so unanswered.
SPEAKING BOURBON
Saturday afternoon
listening to the whiskey
which, truth be told,
sometimes forsakes Kentucky
to speak in your voice.
Sometimes whiskey says my name,
hey this is me.
I look into the glass & see
your brown eyes watching.
Neither of us addresses
the bar mirror nor that day
in San Francisco. The ice swirls
in a clenched tumbler
like how you dance, spin
& slide away.
Even the sky frowns.
There is a bottle almost empty
& nearly gone.
Maybe I shouldn’t
visit so often
after all.
CAPE FLATTERY, WASHINGTON
We are driving in the
sometimes rain
sometimes wind
on tree shouldered roads
toward the northwesternmost
point
of the contiguous United States.
On maps this is important.
On charts there is an island
beyond that point
manned by Coast Guard
weathermen & inland
recruits who didn’t know better.
No signs.
Keep driving.
Why do all reservation dogs
look alike? This one asleep
in the center of the road.
Look, you say, left alone
all dogs are brown.
Is that Twain? Groucho Marx?
Eventually we walk from muddy car
into raven woods, gull bereft,
to where the path ends
into a simple cliff.
No signs.
No guardrail.
Nobody stupid enough to
walk past Need Apply.
The wind is at home,
our eyes water at the sight
of that ragged island,
tree splattered, wave lathered
with a few buildings
trying to hide. Radio antennae.
Radar dish. Red roofs &
rusty white walls.
There is nothing here
to flatter—funny name—
& the original Native name was
probably apt
but unpronounceable to
second-comers.
Look
past the fog
past the rain
that’s Japan.
INVESTMENT SCARS
Lines around my eyes are
from the smooth years,
the years when every bet on
pork bellies
or hard winter wheat made money;
when the swimming pools were
filled with saltwater so we
could float higher, get more
sun into our bones.
She smelled of coconut oil,
of sweat & jasmine
sheets knotted in the afternoon.
Scooters and skateboards rattle as
the ice cream vendor drinks warm
beer, eyes the nannies & the new
aluminum cars.
We are not ready to measure productivity
in sighs, hurried breaths
or pennies
stuck to the sweet syrup left in the jar.
Why not buy dinars
or drachmas or
diamond tennis bracelets
gifted to undependable girls
from Rio or Jo-burg,
who dance all night to
the jingle of trading bells and slot machines.
Heh, heh he said machines,
the way ten-year olds know cars,
the way cloistered nuns know caramel sauce
the way I know the taste of your
necklace, the frown lines on your face.
