Hands Like Suns
Long slender fingers of a narrow hand,
his nails clean, the skin smooth. Cuticle rides
up one index fingernail. Large hand when
pressed against my smaller one. Strong grip. So
tender as they cross my ribs, first the palms,
then the backs. Powerful, warm as they press
into my back. Embraced in safety, trembling,
with heat as if two suns bore holes through my
torso. Hot island suns. Wild suns, then
exotic, fiery suns, healing all
that aches. Sun-king lover, your sea-warm green
eyes--jewels of what grand place? Such royal
hands and wild soothe me. My heart tangles
in your fingers--my voice is a distant
whimper--it chokes with such warmth as I live
and die and live in your powerful hands,
in your hot sandcastle islands of suns.
Afternoon Rainbows
In one tiny infant hand he holds such
tiny worlds that will open before
us in bright colors--dreams he holds, warming
for future years. In the other he holds
a bit of grief and tears he'll have to tame
with the dreams he'll carry into sunlight.
Between each hand we place a fringe of his
soft sheets, all purple and yellow-bathed; soft
field to balance the bitter and the bright.
We'll See Who's Laughing
On a plinth sat your ego, high above
a crowd. You stood by it laughing, flitting
from end to end like an appointed guard.
You charged the people five dollars apiece
to see your grand platform, and then you had
the nerve to laugh at those who pay your bills.
Hope you're happy when you're left alone
with your
ego.
Spider
He runs upstairs, grabs me, pulls and pushes
until
we
get
there.
Black widow spider with the red back sits
in a brick, eaten beetles all around
her. He crushes it with his shoe, says our
animals and the two of us don't need
her poison. So beautiful, so shiny
and perfect, her threat lingers long after
the shoe.
Loner
She sat alone in bank's
cafeteria, where
she drank coffee among
empty glasses and used,
dirty plates. Her hair's been
teased and curled; her eyes
sparkled in sunlight
streaming through a skylight.
Her floral dress drooped off
one shoulder. Empty chairs
seemed to be engaged in
private conversation.
The Broken Trailer
In the kitchen of her broken trailer
Tammy swatted flies, watched the rain falling.
A woman came riding up on a horse.
She was leading another horse along
the grassy hillside. We fed them carrots
from the kitchen of her broken trailer.
With too many flies to swat and too much
rain, Tammy jokes about killing herself.
A woman came riding up on a horse,
distracting her from cutting potatoes
with a bent knife; baby running naked
in the kitchen of her broken trailer.
Even the cutting board was broken, Tammy
thought, chasing her running, naked baby.
A woman came riding up on a horse.
There were never enough horses stirring
the grassy hillside to beautify it.
From the kitchen of her broken trailer,
she ses a woman ride up on a horse.
|
 
|
Maura Gage is an Associate Professor
of English at Louisiana State University at Eunice. She is also editor of The Louisiana Review. She has at the time of this writing been married for 5 years to Bob Funk, who also teaches English at LSU-E. She has lived all over--Pennsylvania, Colorado, Florida, South Carolina, and, for the past three years, in Louisiana in a small town just a few exits west of Lafayette. She is a big fan of www.the-hold.com.
• click here for
Creative Writing Poetry Submissions
and Paper Proposals on Popular Culture Poetry/
Poets for the 2003 Popular Culture Association Conference / to be held in New Orleans, Louisiana. • Louisiana Review review w/ michael basinski • |
|