Monday, April 30, 2007

Elegy for Yellow Soap

Unlike the grandparents whose memory your stringent smell
calls up, when the last of you has been rinsed from my limbs
and down the drain, I can buy another bar; I can unwrap

a fresh, new promise. I can keep you in my life forever,
except that your bright aroma is the same old one
on my skin even as I cover it with Givenchy perfume

and Victoria's Secret lotion, and how can I be the same
when I no longer bathe with all my cousins at once, our slick
bodies filed in the tub, my baby sister closest to the drain?

Tuesday, April 10, 2007

Plans Well Made

The night I got a haircut, I called you
because we weren't dating. You picked
me up at my apartment, complimented
all the layers, and opened the car door

like you'd been planning it for months.
We sat in a booth, slurped hot soup,
and plotted to steal a colorful stand-up
bass for no real reason. I wanted

to marry you for your deep, all-teeth
smile, for the laugh that shook the tabletop,
and for the way you shuffled up the steps
to my apartment even though you had

no intention of coming in. I unlocked
the door, turned, and smiled. The evening
held its breathe, and then you said goodnight,
and turned, and left, our next-day movie

plans well made. I went to sleep thinking
of you, the gentleman, the man with many
jokes, the man who talked long hours
on at my doorstep waiting for a kiss.

Thanks to Pauline for her wonderful line. :0)