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FOUR OF "SIX URBAN LOVE
SONGS"
I.
Can One Think
Can
one think, in sunglasses, in the park; think
with the children playing and the adult banter,
and someone smoking; and experiment, in ink,
through the invading dogs, and toddler-gallivanter—?
Escape the Ice-cold-beer-and-Snapple hawking
and the ones who target you when you're alone,
and so they stare, or come over, talking?
But how can I (who've been rather accident-prone)
forget it was just that dappled fate-and-chance—
and perhaps the shade of arrogance—
that brought me you? and though I tried to
shake
you off ("Don't bother me; I'm mean, I'm
grieving")
the discouragement didn't seem to take—
so I came to accept that you weren't leaving.
Then I'll let these clowns distract me with their
dance—
there's a weird wisdom in persistence—
I'll stick to my mount of grass and moss and clover,
writing things down, and thinking things over.
II.
San Francisco
Pierced
tongue. Do-it-yourself lisp.
What is this? Penitence? Native wisdom?
Mutilation? or signal: I'll do anything.
Was it a dare? or a careful plan? Did it sting—
or ache—and does the food get caught—
and should such a person work in a restaurant?
Customers' stomachs can turn—or does desire
turn to her—to wish—to feel the fire
glide over the silver (or is it gold?) pin?
And you, my darling, with your end-
less speculation: Is he—is she—gay?
Does he or she want you—or me—or either way?
Why do you need to know? I am here.
This is my body; eat. Unwrap. Disappear.
III.
Portrait of David As/Not As A
Refrigerator Magnet: Universal
appeal;
the most beautiful stone to pull
the image from: David. David of the tilted
head,
the hip slung into, the arm I lived to till
the underbelly of. On my pillow, on my bed,
your body, David, undressed and dressed...
Now who's this in plastic plastered against
the refrigerator door! Not David! on whom they've
pressed
pants, t-shirt, shoes; now the penis can be fenced
in skivvies; heaven-on-earth, figleaf,
in sunglasses! What they have done or think
they've done—appropriation; in short, in brief:
anyone's. Possessed, asked, Shall I have a drink
now or later? Your place or mine?
to toast the front—to dream the spine...
IV.
Safe-T-Man
"This
unique security product looks incredibly real,
with moveable latex head and hands, and air-brushed
facial highlights."
advertisement
If
safety can be had from hollow men
whom one can place to fill the empty chair,
let's leave them to their task of sitting, then;
while I'll these blow-up men to you compare:
From far off you pose, endangered, rare—
and, coated as you are with scent and skin,
you are surely filled with hotter air;
still, neither heart can quite admit me in.
Though Safe-T-Man can dress for many roles—
wearing hats for winter or for tropic breezes—
in commuter lanes, the real men can count tolls;
yet...do not fold to fit precisely in valises.
To buy or not to buy the button-on legs—?
Can anyone be safe? the question begs.
Kate
Light's poetry has appeared in The Paris Review,
Western Humanities Review, The Washington Post,
Feminist Studies, Wisconsin Review, Sparrow, Barrow
Street, Rattapallax, Carolina Quarterly, The Dark
Horse, Janus, The Formalist, and other journals. Her
first collection, The Laws of Falling Bodies, was
the co-winner of the 1997 Nicholas Roerich Prize
from Story
Line Press
and later awarded the 1999 Sheila Motton Prize from
The New England Poetry Club for a book published
within a two-year period. She is included in the
recent books The Penguin Book of the Sonnet and
American Poetry: The Next Generation. Also a
violinist, she is a member of the New York City
Opera Orchestra. |