KNUCKLE SANDWICH
- for Hillary
Like panels of banana peels pocked by dark explosions
Of sugar, sweetness deals weakness to her heels.
A silence, awkward as a tarnished dog whistle
Calling stray children home, was only disturbed
By the equal distributions of a metronome
Blown into motion; her lips pursed
Like pennies from hell. Slim fingers, spaghetti tested
On a kitchen ceiling, dangle from virginal keys
That will never turn anything except light-yellow--
The color of bones preserved in a sauce
Purchased after love loses its throttle
To a weaker vehicle. A young man, cruder than oil
Spilled into a baby's bottle, pulls up to comfort
With a broad pair of shoulders. Holding the boulder
Of the breath she has left, soberly reaching,
She removes them like remoras delaying clippers
On ancient business trips. When he mentions eating,
She clenches her fist, as if grabbing an invisible drink
On the mud slide; and pumps the entire menu,
Like a flat tube, into the gaping hole
So natural to a boob of his magnitude.
FOR THE FALLEN WIRES
Deep smooth voice, paraphrased, as if identical
To the disc jockey who turns on the quiet
With jazz ballads, repeats, If you ride this line,
You're not going to arrive on time.
You've sent no pleas for free-samples, but receive
The gist of them wriggling across the ties--
Sparkling-hot designs, medusae who turn trains
Into classical strains of stone.
You rustled roses in a momentary lapse of business.
You were tuned-in to producing a special dinner
For your spouse. You've been pressed into stillness,
Blooming like a meat thermometer;
Rising in your mind is a recipe for an apology,
Entwined with the woman reaching for an attempt
To soften the unexpected. Those extra sticks of gum
Still race around the tracks of your minted tongue.
FOR A LOVE THAT LASTS LONGER THAN A ZIPPER
My memory, serving me correctly, like a butler,
Crawls through spaces no bigger than the tears
That have rusted the root of every upheaval.
This recipe says you should appear large--
Big enough to sift beaches through your fingers,
And that I'll see jetties when your eyebrows enter.
Oh yes! Let me pluck those jealous rocks
Holding back the roll of your eyes.
And in the morning, you'll tie a nylon kite
To the split-ends of my hair. I'll ask you
To let it all out, down to the strong roots,
With their non-stop tickets to fly past my scalp...
To constant weather and considerate darkness.
And if there's been a bone of truth
Formed within your beautiful body,
I'll peel back your skin, build a vibraphone
Out of them all-- play music with the mallet
Of our baby.
To me, you would be the breath I could always hold
Without turning blue. To you, I would be the tear
You could never wipe away.
James Smolens
© 1996
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