Sunday, November 15, 2009

A Large Stable of Horses

I can't stop writing without my arm on fire
and then milk. I must be a reincarnation of St. Sophia,
or was that blood and milk.

Her teeth sharp, black, each morning she hands me
my peppermint latte at Dunkin Donuts. In another life,
she was Kali and I, the daughter she killed for singing or weeping.

You send me a postcard of Paris, although you've never
been there and you live in New Jersey. You are probably
a series of polka dots, or that advertisement about condoms in Spanish.

She thinks we are friends on Facebook, but I don't
remember borrowing her pink shoes. She must
be a reincarnated mouse, or some kind of grey machinery.

They whine that the day is too long and the sunset
too orange and short. They are buried Maine Coon cats,
resurrected for my New Year's party or the day after.

We never go in that room any more. We are fleas
without wings, or the lock frightens us -- size
of a baby's head, horrible key-hole and frown.


The Upstairs Neighbor

On a good day, your sweater reeks
of poppies, tree roots and sunburn.

You promise to send me a postcard
from Paris in the springtime, although

you're too old to fly to France and you
live in a four-story walk-up in Jersey City.

In the morning, your teeth sharp and black,
you hand me my peppermint latte from Dunkin

Donuts. In another life, you were Kali
and I, the daughter you smashed for singing

or weeping. I can't stop writing on my arm
about fire and milk. I dream I'm the reincarnation

of St. Sophia while you pretend to run a cosmetics
business from your cellar, and bury the bodies after

hours in the park. We can never go into the room
where we first met. We are tiny, tiny fleas

without wings, and the lock frightens us -- size
of a baby's head, frown and horrible key-hole.

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