| From
the Beginning
I imagined a scene worth
noting down: the luggage
tagged for Paris,
tissue undoing mascara
from her lashes, perhaps
fourth of July fireworks.
She: on the back porch,
deaf to my words.
I pictured a taxi outside,
yellow as her sundress
when summer was barely
adolescent on grass.
Tonight she unlocked
the door, the runs in her
stockings like Dear John
letters. The color on
her cheeks made me think:
This is a blind date.
A woman's heels can strike
a clear Morse code
up the stairs.
I let myself out
the same way I came in.
Skinhead
with Tattoo
1.
It's a flower. Over lipids,
roses bloom into begonias.
The word Death goes around
his curve of arm with spatulate
thorns. We are alone in the room.
2.
Callipers. He has grown
sensitive to the clamp of hunger.
The back of his neck moves like
a newborn cub curled towards
its mother's breasts. I measure
him up, watch the waves
of goose pimples on his skin.
3.
Is there such a thing as
losing weight? The difference
between feather and hen is
the latter gets
sacrificed to absent gods.
4.
It is hard to explain love
to a skinhead. His motorbike
breaks down like a woman.
In the end, he prefers
the geraniums on his window sill.
Mosquitoes shun his flat.
5.
His father was never home.
I show him how to count calories
with a small scale. Day after day,
he comes back to ask the meaning
of slow release energy. Sometimes
he comes so close to taking my hand.
- Arlene Ang
| Arlene lives in Venice, Italy where she
edits the Italian Niederngasse (http://www.niederngasse.com).
Her poetry has been published in Literary Potpourri, Melic Review, The
Pedestal Magazine, Smiths Knoll (UK), Tattoo Highway and 2River View. . |
|
