|
Alison Luterman Page 2
Little True Poem
When I put my hand to my
cheek and drift off
into reverie or shaft of
sunlight
I am exactly my father’s
daughter,
as if his daydream were
having a daydream.
It’s in this little gesture
that I find
myself making more and more
these days,
pausing for breath as time
speeds up,
that I see how close to the
tree
the apple fell after all—or
when I catch
my profile in the mirror,
and there’s
myself in him,
soft in our shared flesh;
slow-moving, witty,
large-nosed,
with those tribal love
lizard eyes.
It was given to me early
That a man would be my
mirror;
we inherit our stories,
but choose how to tell
them. Mellifluous
listener he is,
fumble-fingered, as I am.
In this too-little-fathered
world, I had a father, have
one still: and this is how I
know
whatever I know of love,
gratitude, and honor.
From my collection See How
We Almost Fly
Messed-Up Villanelle About Intimacy
You criticize the way I wash
the dishes;
I left some oatmeal clinging
to the spoon.
Neither can fulfill the
other’s wishes.
I didn’t know how tight your
mouth could get.
Your rose-lipped mouth, your
sweet, your soft, your wet—
I say I’ll clean the tub but
I forget.
You’re brittle as a pencil,
made to break.
I’m soft as an eraser, dull
and dirty,
Is this an epic love or huge
mistake?
What cosmic joke are we
enacting here?
What cruel god stuck two old
fools together?
You turn from me and sleep
on your good ear.
This marriage business makes
for vagrant weather,
Although next night we’re
sweet again, and flirty,
And in the kitchen dance and
laugh together
For love ferments a brew
that’s quite capricious,
And serves it up with salt
from year to year,
Though neither can fulfill
the other’s wishes.
(I know this isn’t what you
want to hear.)
Originally published in
Oberon
© Copyright, 2011,
Alison Luterman. |