Driving with the Top Down

You're touching my waist, my hips, but it's not you,
it's the guy who looks like you and we're climbing

the stairs between rooms of warm pink light, complicated
wallpaper and soft, soft gray couches.  One of my

friends -- the long-haired one with hand tattoos --
is trying to teach us guitar, but we can only watch

each other's lips and tongues.  Your words have a
feel, they feel like felt or a wool skirt and everything

is just a little too hot so I take off my skirt and I'm
wearing my knee socks pulled all the way

up and some high-heeled boots which catch on
the rug while we leave the noisy warm room with

its guitar music and lacy pink drapes, but you catch
my hand, you grab me by the elbow and haul me

up and you say, next time, I'm driving.

Swimming Lessons


We went down
to the grey river that
runs through
the middle of the city
and I decided to take
all my clothes off
and go for a swim.

We had to climb
down a chainlink fence
and over some rocks
and push a baby
stroller and toilet
seat out of the way.

The police came
while he was trying
to follow me
into the river.
He had his shirt off
and he hadn't shaved
for three days,
so they were sure
he was a terrorist
or at least some kind
of marginal street capitalist
with too many parking tickets.

When I pulled myself
out of the water,
my teeth were chattering
like ice in a glass,
clink, clink,
and I had to comb
a condom out of
my hair. I was
mad he left me
alone like that
and I haven't seen
him since, though
sometimes he sends
me letters and asks
me why I won't come
visit him in jail.

Sunday Night And

I imagined that you
would be sucking my
toes by now, but I'm
alone with my cat
who just stinks
and puts more stink
in the corner,
and I think about the hour
I spent sitting on
the edge of the bathtub
trimming my toenails
and painting them
with that new
cheap polish that
I got at the drugstore
where they always
look at me funny,
like I'm going to steal
a Mother's Day Card
or a Birthday Card
or a bottle of pills, and
my toenails sparkle
like flaming batons
as I wave my foot in time
to the music of the TV
commercial and
isn't it funny
how a room can
seem so empty
even when there's
so many things in it.

Year 12

A yellow wall full of framed photos. In the center
frame, a pair of scissors. Underneath the framed
scissors, a row of three carving knives with neon
green plastic handles. Underneath that, to the
right: a smiling, plump woman with short gray
hair holds up a very large triangular knife. She
holds the knife in a fist raised above her shoulder.
To the left: a simple serrated blade with a wooden
handle on a dark blue background. Next to
that , a small pair of pinking shears, ornately
framed, a cherub dancing at each corner.