Skip to main content

Dinner Hour

little brass bell, cup and striker
colored tin cups, sweating ice water in tiny table socks
foursquare at the big wooden house of dinner
there is a moment of calm, quiet, prayer and hymn, then

we help ourselves to the fever of questions,
elbows, salt, love, paranoia
eat words, inhale sentences
pour paragraphs down our eager throats

syllables spill on the tablecloth
consonants sparkle in the sun
that strikes through the diamond windowbars
extra vowels drop unheeded across the cold linoleum

the world is a scratchy shortwave station
the news of a nearby betrayal
the evermore beat of misunderstanding
we bask in the inner lampglow of warm together

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

even better

even better than the writing is the not writing even better than the rooms are the hallways even better than the fingers are the missing rings even better than the cookies are the empty greasy spots on the baking sheet how will I know, she wondered, and her backache said, just start but where should I start, she said, and her sore feet said, right here and when do I stop, she asked but there wasn’t a good answer even harder than the aches are the wants even harder than the fists are the open hands even harder than the waiting is the being even harder than the trees are the countless, nameless, hopeful flowers I walked over a bridge, she said I opened a letter, and I learned something new I closed a book, and I missed so much I sat on a bench, and I laughed even older than the sense is the nonsense even older than the aches are the hollow rooms even older than this poem is the waiting even older than the end is the constantly shif...
1 comment
Read more

Alakazam

All of a sudden the bakery All of a mouth the creature All over hot the driveway All out of pocket the pickers All over town the regret All of a piece the rumble Alakazam, the belly All over now, the shouting All of us masked, this peacetime All over shy, this spring All of the worst, over now? Always already the bakery
Post a Comment
Read more

Last day (san san)

If this turns out to be the last day we can speak will we feel foolish for the unsaid words? the baby bucks head-butting in the yard will go on play- ing, trampling our unsaid words. The world might creak to an end on this last day. Frightened away, maybe the baby words will find each other in the yard, nest under the hooves of the wannabe bucks, on this last day we could have spoken. The silent bucks will come to rest. (This poetic form is called san san, which apparently means “three three” in Chinese. It rhymes as you see (a-b-c-a-b-d-c-d), and also repeats, three times, each of three terms or images; in this case, last day, (unsaid/baby) words, (baby/wannabe/silent) bucks)
Post a Comment
Read more