The large,
multi-colored bird with
A beak
Look like it
Could tear my
Pecker off,
Stared at me
From
Across the bedroom.
It rustled
Its feathers
And exercised
Its wings in
Long,
Lethargic swoops.
Once
Or twice
It scratched its
Bony beak.
"She sees thousands more colours
than you
or I see," she said earlier.
"Oh really," I said, not
interested. "where's the
hook on your bra?" I asked.
We fumbled and rolled
Over onto
Already-
Wet
Sheets.
Later, she whispered, "I love
You more deeply than
You'll ever
Know," and as I watched the
Bird
Watch me,
I understood
Exactly
what she meant.
Four Girls on the Train
Your blonde is not my blonde.
Your blonde is the blonde of
Bmw's
Porcelain bathes
Tall, freshly-poured iced-teas on Nantucket.
Your blonde is not my blonde.
Your tan is not my tan.
Your tan is the tan of
Jacklyn Smith on Jones Beach
Tennis lessons on soft green clay
Madison and 60th with your mother
Your tan is not my tan.
Your home is not my home
Your home is the home of
Gargantuan kitchens and Viking stoves
Trampolines and
Mahogany desks in lighted alcoves
Your home is not my home.
I dated you once
When we were young
And at the dance we danced
Just once.
Collarbone
I can't remember when I
Began losing
All this
Weight
But it falls
Off me now like
The snow
From a snowman
Sweating in a blinding March sun.
My friends tell me, You've lost weight.
You look wonderful, fit, they say.
I know different.
Yesterday I looked at my chest
In the mirror for the first
Time in
Weeks.
My collarbone juts
From
My chest, hideous, protruded,
Obscene. A small child could
Grab hold
And hang from me:
There is grip enough.
I ignore
The gland
The swelling
The tongue
The pain
The appetite
That is no longer there. To
Pass the time
I draw my
Hand across this new
Bone
And imagine what I am
Under my skin where
We are all just
Heart
Lungs
Liver
And guts waiting to
Expire.
