Beauty Shop

The signage on the foreground makes

a hefty promise of discount –so we enter

the beauty store, shuffling in

to an extensive album of soaps, lotions, fragrances.

Inside, the walls are papered peach. Light

slopes in, forms puddles on the zigzag of tiles,

cleaned every hour to restore its glossy lips

of ceramic. Meanwhile, a corner sweetens with

bits of molten sugar scrubs. And the sink froths

with cleansers milked from wild seaberries. I take my time, read

aloud the product labels while you spritz along your neck,

honeysuckle extracts, jojoba hearts, muddled sprigs

of lavender. And it takes just a moment to realize,

within this cube of plush confine, that all but one

are welcome here –age, the tick of time,

the climb of years, their ultimate, all-consuming fears.  

Late August

We sat out on the terrace, feeling, slowly,

the Summer afternoon cool into evening –

the sun, slipping away, noticing then,

the sky, you had thought looked just like cotton candy.

We chatted about the Mexican sunflowers;

how the harsh Winter would kill them all,

make brittle their leaves, chew away

the buds that had failed to thrive.

And there was silence afterward – disallowing

time for you to notice how the conversation

had left me shifty. You had held my hand, then,

in a tighter grip, as we waited

for the meatloaf, inside the oven,

to finish its bake, allowing ourselves, in the while,

even if for a few quiet minutes, to just be

in each other’s company.   

Anatomical Illustration

Its purpose though, to instruct, the figure

on the chart, causes me discomfort –

standing still, the pencil

sketch of a man, his skin peeled

then folded, for me to see

what lies beneath –bundles

of plump, pinked muscles, each, labeled –

a careful list of names. At first, I feel, a sense

of awe at the body’s strict complexity; each

ligament’s pull, each tendon’s clench,

marvelous – such perfect rules of joints.

What appears next, though, is regret –as I

imagine myself, the odd beneficiary,

of mercy killings, figure studies, scores

of practiced death.  

Metaphor

It was meant to be an easier challenge

in the empty hour of evening. Noticing,

how easily you built the house

of cards, over the pale gray rug, not once,

nor twice, but three different times – your fingers used

to the unusual discipline of collapse and resurrection.

I tried, as well, this task –over

and over again, to build, from scratch,

a home. But failed; no progress past

the foundation, no room for a stepping stone.

New Hampshire Suite VI

VI.

Nervous, at first, the ride

To the mountain’s bony peak, we turn calm, feel

Secure by the gondola’s perfect rise. Up above,

We walk the spiral of pines, under the radius of sky, whisper

Directions, notice, on the floor, the bloom of fern, its fingers, dirty

Green, toothed along the margin of slopes. The question then,

The mode of descent to the mountain toe. All the while,

You busy yourself in the exact measure of miles,

The crawl of time, the possible spill of after-

Noon into evening, while I repurpose my sight to the con-

Ference of firs, their lesions of blight, and the notch’s

Gentle slants, like hammocks on which Summer reclines. 

Decided, at last, to hike down the path, we embark  

The journey down; from a tip of cloud, near the crown

Where an observatory stands, along the steep decline

Disobedient in its twine, fraught with square rocks,

Dimpled cheeks of fauna mushrooms, dried sockets

Of lakes, to, at last, the motor way; your pale skin,

A glossary of sweat, under your t-shirt, conspicuously wet,

As you lead the path through brackets of Nature’s unimaginable

Wonder, maneuvering, in your head, the directions, following

Only the preserved imprints of dead rivulets.

New Hampshire Suite V

V. 

They have listed it as an ‘attraction’

on the hotel’s curated website; so we wait,

impatiently, in the crowded lobby for

its eventual arrival –the manned elevator,

devoid of push buttons, embossed numbers

of floors; its every stop, an operator’s practiced judgment.

Its descent, slow and weighty, carrying

a family of three, this box, our transport, is a square cut

of cherry –a wooden sky, satiny, walls

mostly gouged then planed with glass, and a corner

stool, on which, he sits, motioning

the bronze handle in a rehearsed, geometric arc.

We shuffle in, following others. Our destination, all –

to floor three. The grille gate, making of our space   

a beautiful cage, its ascent, a motion

of mechanical wonder. But seconds later,

we come to a pause –unknown to us,

the reason; a cog’s disobedience, or maybe

a pulley’s greaseless cough. And all of a sudden, this ‘attraction’

now, an inconvenience, an ‘outdated

system’, someone’s impatient remark. He turns left

the handle, then right, all the way to the bowl of midnight,

his fingers tied in a familiar struggle,

but we move, not an inch. Three attempts,

failed, he calls for help, eventually, while

others busy themselves with the news, weather

of the valley, on their phones’ phosphorescent screens;

myself, the only exception, staring

at a wall etching above; noticing then, a palmette –

its one leaf missing.

New Hampshire Suite IV

IV.

By the third night of our stay, I had grown

Entirely restless, feeling trapped in a room with

An over abundance of your love –your every word

Of endearment, as if, a toxic sting boring into my ears,

Every I Love You, a needle’s painful prick. The trigger,

Unknown, I felt in my bones, a depressive ideation; my eyes,

Shaky, under a translucent lid of tears.

You knew something was wrong, when

My every response to your questions became

Pithy, nearly monosyllabic –a majority, No, coupled

With an occasional Maybe –and you asked me

In your polite demeanor, Can I do anything to help you?

I hadn’t hesitated then, to say, Yes you can.

You can take me back home to New York, as

Soon as your schedule will allow.

I have missed it. Terribly.

NH Suite

III.

The native phenomenon is a matter

Of delight –the clouds’ daily descent

From shoulders of privy mountains

To the nape of the valley, shredding,

Along the way, then settling over the forest

In a scatter, like a torn loaf of bread.  

I look outside the window –while you

Are spooning strawberries onto your waffle –

And see the bombast of peaks, almost silvery

Under the gaze of sunlight, and notice the forest’s

Green façade capped, completely, in smoke. I imagine,

At once, a devastation – a fire, eating roots

Of the galinsoga vines, chomping bells

Of pearly white tobacco flowers, ripping the prickly

Racks of firs; its flames inching forward

In an ashen hiss of riot. But, I am wrong –

I learn, from an attendant, that a cloud

Fell asleep on the bed of trees

And is just now waking up, stretching.

New Hampshire Suite Continued

II.

The hotel is host to a wedding ceremony, this last

Quarter of Saturday. We notice, in the morning,

The wife-to-be by the indoor pool, engaged

In polish of her finger nails, powder

Around her neck, scattered, dusty, like a puff

Of pollen. Her eyelashes

Stiff with black mascara, cheeks

Ripened with rouge, she is clothed

In a wrap of silk hemmed at the seams with

Chrysanthemums, asters, golden sequins. 

In a matter of hours, she has become

A catalog bride, her Prince

Outside, standing on the terrace, awaiting her

Rehearsed walk down the aisle; family, friends,

Loved ones, nervously eager for the pastor’s

Impersonal pronouncement. You notice her,

A few feet away, her head, now contained in

A mesh of veil, her fingers curled in a half-circle

Around a slim bouquet of rose. Your face, I see,

Is a highway of delight, your own cheeks, flushed

With excitement for the wife-to-be, thinking

About thresholds of journeys, possibilities, maybe

Even our own matrimony –

While I sit, frozen, on a pale cushion

Dressed in chintz, imagining, two meaty orioles,

Flying into a cage, being locked in,

Slowly, asphyxiating.

New Hampshire Suite

I.

We walked, stealthily, along

The Bridle path –passing

Neat rows of maples, American beeches,

Arms of red spruces; their bodies, thick

With leaves, spines swollen

With blooms of hockweed and iris –

Holding hands, listening carefully

To sounds of water crashing

Onto boulders sleeved with moss.

We tiptoed through stretches of the trail

Made dense with wild blueberries, observed

Purple columbines, rings of fresh poppies, bunches

Of white hydrangeas –so serene, all around,  

That we felt, all of a sudden, like intruders

In Nature’s order of being. 

Head Ache

A tenant has moved into the space

Between my crepe-thin meninges

Without any prior notice.  

He knows to hold tight the flaps

Around my head, and occasionally, gives it a shake –

As if gripping a colander with leaping grains of rice,

Allowing each stick to fall into a gauze of steel,

And then to rise again on the flick of a second launch;

Like lobes of my brain, bobbing up and down

In the sterile world of my skull, each time

My foot touches the ground.  

Maturity

The manual instructs: upon completion

of a draft, set the poem aside, and let it ripen

before returning to it, for the final touch. 

I imagine, the outcome of each,

a plump, reddening peach, bursting

with juice at the seams –fleshy halves served

from among the perfectly ripe, taut to the touch,

and sweet to the tongue, with a bowl

of freshly whipped cream.

Walnut

Bits of walnut have sunk, during the bake,

below the airy carpet of a cake.  

They seem unhappy, appear restless

caught in the dough, feeling breathless. 

So I pick them out, lend them a hand –

As if rescuing little children

from a pit of quicksand.

Contact Lenses

A struggle each night, to put away

The two little cups of silicone films,

That allow me, each day,

The luxury of sight –

As they hold on, tight,

To the collars of my eyes, the way

Spring does, to the month of May.

Gospel Music

I listen to songs

Praising He; despite

My state of nonbelief.

Astonished, each time,

By the pure, devotional beauty

Of purposeful voices –

Thick braids of sounds, tightly spun,

Rising in the air, soaring towards a cloudless sky,

Then settling down, like fresh snow,

Onto a smooth, silky landing –

With the same softness of a clear waterfall.

August Dusk

We lay on a bed of grass, both
Evening and I – 

Played a game of cards,

And watched, underneath

The membrane of sky,

A necklace of birds fly by.

The Protest

Morning breaks up

A mob of clouds

Crowding around the City’s shoulder

Protesting, enraged –

The murder of July.

Neck

I.

How neatly your skin folds,

            Like curtains, around your neck.

Two

I find myself going back, time and time again,

To the Breuer’s exhibit on Madison Ave,

            To see, the installation of two 

Oranges; their peels, left to blacken,

Then sewn back together in careless loops

Of thread. 

They look like a pair of smashed baseballs.  

Even within the box of glass, where they wait –

            For whom, I know not yet – the black

Gets blacker. Biology waits for none –this stiff process

            Of collapse. The pores of skin,

Visibly rot, but don’t, however, crumble.

A sign on the side says, the installation is

            A symbolism. No nuances further described–perhaps

Leaving to my imagination, this odd, patient couple.

            I think of bodies, then, and how they perish,

Yet memories, that remain.