Fiction and Poetry

Parachute Girl, 

— For Kay and Jack Peters

You were bending over the zinnias
when the hose went slack and he splayed
his fingers over the small of your back,
waltzed you past the day lilies,
swooning in their clay pots.

We’d just finished supper,
the neighbors said, pointing to the spot
where he did his Hollywood dip and your hair
dusted the roses, as an insect orchestra
played in the listening pines.

You in your apron,
he in the torn high tops he wore
to troll for blues, taste of crackled skin
still in your mouths, your long neck white
against the enfolding night.

Right there, they said,
in the shadow of the darkened house
its garden gone to seed, a summer porch
where a child slept under spinning stars —

Absence established a beachhead.

What fold of the hippocampus
holds the steep icy hill, palpable thrill
of cutting class, stained glass atmosphere
of ice cream, jukebox, carved hearts?
Korean market now, chrysanthemums, power bars.

Which compartment contains the apartment
draped in parachute silk? One bus, two trains,
all that remains in the cerebellum
of the condo that has calcified around it.
Mummified rooms remember your name.

And what of the secret Chelsea garden
entered through the mirrored door of an armoire —
scent of saffron, notes climbing
the crystalline ladder of a love song?
Starbucks now, latte, wi-fi, green tea croissants.

Is this why old people wander off?

Not lost, merely walking a groove,
the way folded smooth by long habit.
Wizened archaeologists following their maps —
first left, second right, cul-de-sac,
looking for the road that unravels
between high-breasted cliffs —
the one that will take them back.

To know a place by heart —

Under the mall, multiplex, battlefields of burger wars
lie paths once green, rivers still pristine.
We dig for the life buried there
deep as faith, invisible as air.

There is no wheat in this poem,
no barley, rye or derivatives thereof,
I can’t say why, but it doesn’t involve
any sort of nut.  Cross contamination
is not an issue here; these words are

          100% safe to eat.

There is longing, though.  And heat.
A phantom crumb lingers on the tongue,
buttered with hungry eyes.  Jam sticky lust
licks its finger and thumb, some sugar

          to swallow down with the losses.

One in 132 poets experience the urge
to fondle dinner rolls, swoon
at the sight of a batter-coated spoon,
slow walk past the patisserie,
breathe from the knees

         sweet burnt air to last a lifetime.

While these lines contain absolutely no lactose,
high fructose corn syrup, casein, palm kernel oil
or genetically modified ingredients,
they do possess a prayer,
a memory, a wish, the taste

          of every forbidden dish.