(For Michael and Cornellia)


The postcard he would never send

found its way into the child’s sand pail

after he had carefully selected it

from a rack in the souvenir shop

cautiously carrying it tucked inside

the folds of his red, white and

blue striped towel to the seaside.

Then he penned the words:

Wish you were here…

on its field of white,

scratching  a black “x”  

where her body might lie

alongside his body  

in the perfectly coiffed sand—

in the picturesque seascape

on the face of the charming,

little card...when  a hot wind,  

filled with love’s urgency,  came

over  the water ( it would not wait)

and up onto the beach

as if  to herald his message to her.

The postcard lifted up like a kite

swirled past a sour, snoring

centenarian,   beyond a  father

and son—  oyster rakes in hand

despite the spelling of the month--

then alighted in the lovely  lap

of  a small ginger-haired girl who

looked curiously up after squinting

hard  at the card and at its letters...

sounding out the “www” and “ssshhh”.  

She pressed the invitation to her lips

and would forever search for  its sender.

"David Cassidy moved to the ICU
         on Sunday as his condition began
         deteriorating..."    The Daily News

Go figure:
David Cassidy lies dying as
Charlie Manson laughs
into the hollow cough of truth.

And we children of the 70's,
no longer innocent spectators,
wonder:  Who was right afterall?
The Lover?  The Hater?
Who was right? 

And "I think I love you...
but what am I so afraid of?"
I'm afraid WE ARE helter-skelter--
that's what!

And madder than Alice's Hatter,
madder than an Oracle--
ignored, good ol' Charlie laughs
along with the voices in his head
at us, because he knew more in
those few days in Hollywood
than the Partridge boy would
ever understand:  Fame is fleeting,
unless it is fear based.
Then, then... it lasts a life time.
Amen.

Tonight, you cling to my nakedness
with the perfect gratitude of a nearly
drowned man.   And I think:  

I am the shore he has washed up on.
And I ask:  Who is really the one saved?

So much doesn’t matter.
There are no questions about where
you have been or where we will go.

There is only now.  

There is only your cheek pressed
against the inside of my thigh,
the feeling of your skin becoming my
skin, the sound of you drawing me in
as you inhale the sweet, spicy heat of me
that rises up from a dark,
warm place you want to return to.

And there are these hands.
Hands that you have given a purpose.
Hands that have read the electric petition
of your body and understood. And read on.

These are the hands that will not lie to you.
These are the hands that you will return to.

I like dimly lit bars and beer.

I like how you walk purposefully
to me.  I like smelling need in
your swet.   I like your reserve.

And I like how you stand when you ***.
I like the shape of your feet
and how you touch me here
and there with them.
I like how you never go directly for me.

I like when we  rub our bodies
together like two sticks, then
warm ourselves
on the heat we generate.  

I like how you saved me from my despair.

I liked you--
but  now there is only
this dimly lit bar and the beer.

By:  Evelyn Augusto

"The act of molting or shedding an
                      outer cuticular layer."

I knew coming into blue,
recognized that
love colored my eyes too.
For days I was blind,
ached,
starved for loves sake--

Convinced that so
much was at stake!
I wrestled with desire
and hate,  
denied longing,
feared fate,
fought the need to mate,
then would compensate.

Irritable, I'd agitate.

I knew coming into blue
& embraced the devil too.
Writhed and wrestled
then shed you--
becoming something new.

By:  Evelyn Augusto

I wrote this to take the sharp edges off my poem: You Ruined My America...



     "What does love look like? ...It has ears to hear the sighs and sorrows of men."
            St. Augustine of Hippo

I love you even tho you resist me.
I love you even tho you sometimes
       forget who I am.

I love you even tho I'm hard and you
       prefer soft .

I love you even tho I get angry.
I love you even tho you get angry.

I love you even tho you don't see what
       I see.

I love you even tho I don’t  give in
       or give up.
I love you even tho you don't either .

I love you even tho you disagree with me
        and the way I express myself
        and how I respond to the world.

I love you even tho you don't always
        understand.

I love you even tho I am tired.  
I love you even tho I am hungry.
I love you even tho I am lonely .

I love you even tho you prefer my silence.
I love you even tho tomorrow is
          our mystery.

I love you even tho I have said
          all there is to say:

I love you.

Why must we refuse what is divine
in each other?  
Why must we nail our lips shut
using our own teeth as though they were wooden pegs?

Instead, let us take each other in our mouths as though we were blind.  Savor and feel you in me and I…in you.   Taste and see.

Celebrate the salt of our labor, of my tears, of your love—
Recognize how silky desire is--
Know how thick loneliness is.  

Bring my hands to you and with your tongue trace their roughness, study the old wounds: read chapters of  my story.

Press the diamond of flesh at my hip to your lips and remember that once your own  hand rested there as I dreamed.   Feel how sharp that bone can be.

Now, let me chew on your despair. Wear it thin, spit out.

Let me navigate with this same mouth those parts of your body that you command to feel  when your heart can not.

We can be good and not be hungry.

We can swallow each other tonight, fall asleep full and satisfied like favored guests at a banquet, then sit down at the table again, tomorrow.


By:  Evelyn Augusto
        2017