Soon I’d be eighty. My hip ached,
the thumb he kissed bent with arthritis.
His scent was lime, and the nape
of his neck smooth as summer jade.
it’s the first time in my life
that I’ve ever had an image
or maybe it just an idea
(which was still bad enough)
of my parents doing it,
having sex, grabbing each other
In the act of eating watermelon no one
ever pulled a trigger, spoke harshly
to a child, swatted a butterfly out
of the sky, or told a lie for money.
Confronted by such absurd kleptocracy, Twitter, as is its wont, got sweet revenge.
voices chorusing woods and fields, ringing
off the stone walls she runs beside, light
and fleet, silent as new snow falling through
I had his phone number, the guy from the A.A. meeting. I held it in my hands. I was terrible on the phone, but he would never call me. He said he couldn’t approach women. It was up to me.
Liz thinks we ought to have a day
devoted to apostrophes
In which we add or rub them out
in bands of roving grammar louts.
Here is the little tramp, standing
On a stack of books in order
To reach the microphone
Tonight, Albert Albertson took me to a foreign film at the Cinemaclub – a Norwegian film in which ten gorgeous people died. The women had agonizingly beautiful noses. Their deaths were as agonizing as their noses, and it seemed fitting, or at least it fit, and I didn’t feel as sad as I would have felt watching normally attractive people die.