|Junket in the Spring
Here you want to put your fist through glass;
want pieces of bone in traction deeper than wounds. It is on the wall,
on the paper, on the chart. They give you the cast. You write,
this pen could burn.
Give them the pen, the pen, let them make you live again in the text,
let them place their pretty eyes here, let them make you real again,
little rag doll. You have only a moment, they are leaving,
you will lose your chance!
--shall we dance?
The cast is on your wrist, on your eyes, on your breast, on
your throat. The shades are drawn. The text is closed.
The window is five feet away, the dance is over, there are
no more eyes, shall we put our fist through glass?
Across the table
the apricot danish hovers,
crumbing the formica with delicate dips.
Coffee boils over,
buying an umbrella.
the terror of face
to the bleakness of day
Seeing you stretched into a smooth sleeping curve,
a open parenthesis,
I remember geometry.
Your white skin traces easily
under my pencil fingertips.
I bend to kiss
all the points on your graph.
Valerie Polichar writes poetry and fiction and is a singer and
songwriter. She holds a Ph.D. in experimental psychology, and works as
a computer network manager at the University of California, San Diego.
In her spare time, she collects scented geraniums with marginated
leaves, grows tomatoes, and throws a hell of a party.