who?

My Last Poem with You as a Referent


They eddy
In our air,
These merry mites:
In the sun we see
Gossamer particles
Willing to be
Swept out each night.

Did you know
Mites multiply as they hide
In rugs and curtains,
Their only clear purpose
To irritate
Mucous membranes,
Exacerbate asthma,
Blanket us with offspring—
Customarily, effectively unobserved?

Mites are magnificent
Allergens: invasive,
Invisible, unsentimental
Beings, all over, yet
Always on the periphery—inaudible,
Probably too small to feel
Angry or depressed, still pressing in
On other life forms.

One could almost be
Wooed by the might of
Such insistent, insidious,
Quietly swaggering
Little things.

UNREQUITED


I understand why
Old boys fondle young men.
I know why
Husbands kick their wives’ cats.

Do you remember,
Three months ago,
On page forty-six of
Some local rag,
Three lines about
A man enjoying a poodle
On a park bench?
I can believe
He felt it was love.

I see young girls
Shake their babes,
Then hug them.

I myself loved
To catch butterflies,
Watched them view life
Through my net, 
Then flap wings
In my jar,
Finally pinned to pastel
Sheets on my wall, and
I would love them
Through plastic wrap
And be queen
Over the monarchs.

So many others
Want to catch,
Want to recapture what
They never had.
They want the rapture, but
All they feel
Is mad or sad.
They want one moment
When they don’t feel
Bad. Instead,
They engulf creatures with their 
Own atavistic pain.

Wings no longer
Flap,
Babes no longer
Cry,
Dogs no longer
Bark,
Young men no longer
Try.

I understand
It is not
Love this way.
Where is the mother?
Where is the father?
Where is the teacher,
The animal owner,
The rabbi, the preacher,
Who will inflict 
Love, not pain?

I don’t understand.
I don’t understand. I don’t
Understand.

all poems on this page © 1999 by Iris N. Schwartz