Hunger

she said I’ve been laughing myself off

down to the bone, the pretty one
that collar bone that pokes out under
collared shirts, the Izods of 1984

snorting, giggling and guffawing
hand to mouth, head thrown back
then hunched over, hand to concave belly

until water comes out of each eye
cold tears not yet warmed by grief
or fear or even relief or beauty

and now what’s left is the ache
in the half moon tips of her mouth
in her throat
in her diaphragm
down her
bending
scalloped back

The Face of a Son

he said I have morning hands
as he sat half kneeling on the floor
finger over finger over finger
under shoelace inside knots
looking up when he spoke
not down at the mess of hand
shoe string leg knee
dimples on both sides
but around one
four freckles
in a sort of square
a lean-to shanty square
that will fall off and dismantle
when he is grown or half grown
or maybe tomorrow when
he is a bit more grown than today
and I will scoop them up
the little brown dots
and smooth them back on his cheek

Refreshing Beverage

it’s really quite lonely
this sitting in front of the screen
how it hums every now and then
the house quiet, the cats asleep in the sills
the beverages
coffee, water, Dr. Pepper, coffee
in that order and changing
about every 2 hours,
yeah, that equals 8 hours
about the time I spend at the desk

the beverages seem to be a clue
howabout this

she wrote me a poem once
the only line I recall was
Your Dr. Pepper with light ice,
and it was the nicest thing
anyone could say to me
almost as nice
as the woman who said
I want to make love to you
and I said I had never heard that before
I mean I had heard of making love
but at age thirty something
still no one had said make love to you
it was like a summer Dr. Pepper
with light ice

Northern Ireland

she said I lied when I said I had nothing to say

I had lots

but to hear you, just to hear you
while I sit in this room
with clothes strewn about,
the night before another holiday
of biking the beauty of places
you’ll never see
with those who only know that
falsetto voice

I think your Midwestern drawl
and deep loud laughter
will air my tires
or cushion
my head
pump potassium
into my
cramping
calves
while I
cycle
spin
ache
coast

As my daughter turns 10: Her lunch is on my mind

I cannot write about peanut butter and jelly
school lunches and milk in mini-cartons

I cannot write about ham sandwiches with lettuce
and mayonnaise, crusts off, cut into triangles

I have no metaphor for oozing jelly
I can’t describe the cafeteria smell of brown bags

I can’t convey my disdain for kids with polished saddle shoes
and notes in their lunch bags

I can say that 11 years ago I went to a bookstore
that sold packets of lunch box note cards

They said, “Have a great day,” “Good luck on the test,”
“Here’s your favorite, enjoy!”

They had “XOXO” stickers to fold and close them
I bought three packages, I did not yet have children

It didn't matter

that I didn’t get stalked back,
as I was on a one way street
traveling into a vena cava
over and over or
marching into a dirt farm
on the sidewalk

that words I imagined mouthed
deeply, coarsely never blew
into my neck or my eyebrow
the I know, I know
never written, faxed,
IM’d, scribbled on my dirty car

that I was the boy
in the bubble using sign
language, fore-finger-thumbing
the “L”, the curved fist of “E”
the single finger “T”
and continuing
“LET ME OUT”

it did not matter-
my non-reciprocated love