Something like romance – Page 2 – Small Poems de Terre

Fixing a Drawer

Pull the wreckage over the runner.

Unload the corn holders, spatulas, slotted spoons,

jar opener, unclaimed keys, and a three-to-two adapter.

Take time to reminisce about

the fight you had with your ex.

Attempt to squirt glue into the slot

without pulling the drawer apart.

Pull the drawer apart the rest of the way.

Sit on the floor. Try to cry.

Quickly pour glue into every crevice

while making a plan to sell the house and move into an apartment

as soon as you get your unemployed brother to move out

and put a couple of the dogs to sleep.

As the glue drips onto the tile,

hold the sides of the drawer together.

This will allow you to feel the particle board disintegrate.

Keep the pressure on anyway while you wipe at the drips,

coating your hands and pants with a new, swiftly stiffening skin.

This is your life.

Birds Drop

Birds drop each through a thin space

where stringy clouds catch

and unravel in their beaks.

Sunshine is cut and cooled with blue

and their lace bones inspire.

On earth we slog through a clabbered mist,

thick with clots of gnats and pollen,

and where your loosed breath

washes into my mouth.

Missing You

Cat tracks in raked gravel

Mallard laughs his demented laugh

Willow dabbles her fingers in dark water

Lotus dry in cold sun

Maples rust

Above, the transparent casing

of yesterday’s moon.

Loving the Fat Man

He describes the bucket of mussels he ate last night,

the butter and the soft meat,

leans way way back in the office chair,

presents his belly to her,

and with his middle finger

wears a circle into the upholstery.

She wants to climb onto him,

let him devour her,

lick her own juice from his chin.

That middle finger working.

On Picking a Man

for Amy

You’ll want to choose one with small flaws.

A painful past is good:

the memory of being overweight

or having been small enough to stuff into a locker;

a history of unfortunate eyewear,

bad skin, lack of coordination, or poor color sense;

maybe a job requiring a paper hat

to which he had to ride a bicycle with coaster brakes.

If there was success in class, it will have been in science.

If there were sports, there will have been a concluding injury.

If there were girls, they will have left him for politics, or

religion, or other girls.

Some current conditions will do:

recovering from alcoholism;

drying out from drug addiction;

suffering from a minor mental illness controllable by modern meds;

a child who won’t call;

an ex-wife who still shops with his mother;

and inability to keep his hair, or business, or waistline.

And most of all, you’ll want him older.

He’ll have memorized enough baseball stats

to be willing to abandon the game

for a Saturday afternoon.

No longer cocksure, he’ll have developed

a compensatory adroitness in loving,

more tender and reliable.

And when you are ready to unbutton yourself

you can leave the light on,

knowing he knows, as you do,

a soft spot or a bruise is a small price to pay

for the sweetness of ripe fruit.