power

You said my name the other day—

not addressing me, of course, but in reference to

someone or something else—

but I heard it, through a circus of noises.

It jarred me and it pleased me, hearing the image of

your lips and tongue and teeth measuring out the vowels and consonants

Into three heaping syllables that equal me.

I say your name, too, sometimes.

Never near you—

where you could hear it and think on

the intimacy of your name residing in my brain and 
slipping out and off my tongue—

but quietly and 
only when I am alone.

Maybe someday, I will find out what our names sound like

together.

clockwork

Green sunlight falls in a stretched-out grid on the floor:

the blooming of a new summer, and 
it was in the dying days of last summer

that you happened.

Across the ocean, perhaps your world is blushing green, too, but I imagine

that the pink-white teardrop blossoms fall not to sidewalks, but to rivers,

in a carpet cleaved by sunburnt punts.

I used to measure out the never-narrowing space--
between there and here--
by the intervals on my wristwatch.

A moment ago, I discovered that I am too used to sidewalks

to remember how many tablespoonfuls of time stretch between us.

Here my back is to you, and the sun is falling.

I know, at least, that it has already fallen where you are

and this might make me feel better.

But I’m not sure if it does or not.

misplaced

I dreamt of cobblestones and woke up with a sore neck.

These days, I am constantly waking to find myself

assaulted by grating inconveniences.

           

            The desk is too low, or else my chair too high,

            for me to cross one leg over another.

            The handle on my hot teacup is too small

            for three fingers, and too large for two.

            And seatbelts are always ignoring my shoulder

            to chafe at my neck.

Here it is: I no longer fit in the life that was mine.

I am conscious of my own breathing

and now the breathing is drudgery.

eponymous

Virginia

Is a name invented for a

New land in a New World, and named for her:

The Tudor Rose.

Power made untouchable through purity.

Elegance, I think, and composed charm,

And perhaps the well-mannered ease of the Old South.

Ginger,

by contrast,

is an ugly root: bulbous and pungent

And good for nausea, apparently.

But it can also mean mettle—“sass,” some might say.

Not quite brazen. Cheeky, perhaps, or spirited:

Leavening conversation with a sprinkling of spice.

I am never sure which one I am

or which one I want to be. 

(assignment: write a poem about your name.)

sinking city

Venice

by day is bright and cramped. The crowd

of sweaty tourists seeps through tangled streets, loud

and greedy. Sundown, and they are gone, by train or boat.

They leave their rubbish and refuse. It floats

in the canals and blankets the flagstone streets.

At night,

San Marco is quiet and cool.

Forgotten laundry flutters, and moonlight pools

on the wavering water. Empty gondolas thud

against each other, and out of the mud

under bridges, rats surface to see the stars.

(assignment: constrained syllables. compare the corresponding lines in each stanza.)

con estasi soave

I think I was made for music—

            that, coiled around my bones and

            clenched in my muscles, are

                        melodies

            taut and tense.

I think I was made for music. but

I can’t be sure.

I am silent, static.

until you

cradle me to your shoulder, and

press me to your cheek, and

lift your bow to hover above my veins—taut, tense—

a breath.

then a slippery scrape: like rosined horsehair over bright strings

and

music

quivers through my blood vessels. back again, and

vibrato thrums over my skin; again, and I am

surging, swelling, soaring.

I am static and silent

but you make me sing.

the title: a musical notation; italian for "with gentle ecstasy."

Gone

(assignment: write about something you’ve never experienced.)

My tongue feels too big for my mouth, and

Someone else’s fingers prod

My numb lips

Coasters

Where are the coasters? I forgot to use one

I press the glass to my face, but the condensation

Is long since gone I exhale

and swipe my tongue through the film of fog

Fingerprints! No matter

The liquid will be warm, but it is brown

and I think will burn the itch in my throat

My lips buzz

Has gravity always been down?