if he knew that his eyes were as fragile
as his bumpy and scarred knees,
he might shed the glasses
(that are so attractive in that
usual bookish sexy way
that is faddish among emo bands
and the new preppy movement.
i was preppy in junior high.
12 years old and ashamed.
the ten-year lag of fashion,
the absurdity of cotton-silk blends
and stretch jeans and chunky jewelry
or high heels and fur coats
or whatever hollywood is wearing these days.)
past lovers were not loves no matter how much
i loved holding hands.
but we depend on nubby carpeting
and woven rugs of an artsy sort
to absorb the dust of all things former.
the eyes that made us want to get married
know past pieces of kisses and betrayals,
flinch and flicker to gaze with grace beyond past
where would you worry?
new rugs keep us freudly repressed
until old poems with coffee stains,
rusted corners, burnt edges, filed and compact words
fear being forgotten.
solid-boned shoulders, sir, you have
and even if i can count your ribs,
or deem your elbows pesky,
this is the poem that i must be writing.
for words of old lodge somewhere between
bony hips and a heart-fearing curiosity
of foreign days, stranger days.
bought and sold, standing like eden,
naked and unashamed,
forsaken by the pasts we swore
would never leave.
they left.
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