"crossgrain" poems
she liked sending her wishes
silently on the roof
of a passing car
cast out from a drifting line.
[she told me she's always believed in the green glass
bottles drifting on the tide]
I called her an oaken darling
something to hold to
[fast we did,
arms on arms and crossgrain]
her wood
tough when bent
She
Screamed
Only
one time.
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 8:54 PM UTC
Same dull knife that ain't been sharpened in years.
But the fingers conform to the worn familiar grip,
between the sweat seasoned tang
and the callous building heel.
Same old blade, same old balance,
that once never bled the eyes
with blasts of sting onion vibes,
now cuts with a thump,
the panic of propane
clings to the nosehair,
with each successive
crossgrain slice.
Same old blade, same old balance,
used to slice garlic thin as almonds,
now gotta lean heavy on the clove,
snap-busting compounds as unstable
as this thin crust hand cracking
the sulphur vents of Vesuvius.
Aug 6, 2019
Aug 6, 2019 at 9:59 AM UTC