Latest 2 Poetry

Trees in Winter (v. 6)

I pile on the clothes for winter
while the trees take theirs off,
leaves puddling at their roots
like dirty laundry. The trees are bold,
arms blooming in brave directions.
Bare chests, lifted skirts, and spreading roots.

They are women with unshaved legs,
shirts peeled and dropped, arms swaying overhead,
knotted shoulders, and tangled nests.

In winter they tighten their grip
and stand stiff like my nipples when I walk
naked, the trees in rows beside me,
bras and panties whirling on dead grass:
little flags in a festive salute.


The Analysis (V. 1)

He talks in his sleep,
and I talk back.
I'm eating grapefruit.
He tells me about Liza's new haircut,
the bird-call she perfected in the bathtub.
I ask about her voice. He says it's a trombone,
heavy and brass. Shiny too. And he laughs,
turns over, pulls the covers to his chin,
mumbles something I can't make out,
and I've eaten all the grapefruit -
an empty bowl with bits of pulp.

I pick at it, eat the little beads with my fingers,
and he says yeah then sighs a small laugh.
The air-conditioning clicks off, and the room tightens
in its crisp silence, and I can hear the air travel
in and out of his nose, like a lost tourist with a camera,
automatic zoom lens, only black and white film.

He says forget it
which I take as a cue.
I leave the bedroom to sleep on the couch,
still wearing my slippers, my gaping robe.

The next morning he taps my stomach.
I wake up with the empty shell
of half a grapefruit in my hand,
my fingers sticky, I suck them and roll over,
face the part of the couch my back is so used to,
and he says from the bedroom, what's wrong, Liza?
I just chirp and hurl a hell of a trombone.