THE POETRY CHALLENGE
Who writes THE BEST POETRY
in America today?
(c) copyright 2007, David B. Axelrod
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THE POETRY CHALLENGE Who writes THE BEST POETRY in America today?
(c) copyright 2007, David B. Axelrod |
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LOVE IN THE KEYS The Macho Myth of the One-Night Stand Duet
OF THE ONE-NIGHT STAND Suffice it to say I never was a pick-up artist. A one-night stand for me would be a business failure. Like a hotdog cart with no takers, I'd be broke in just a day. Let's say I never had that way with woman. Now, nearly fifty, it's not much different. At a bar I leave the fast-talk to others who score a woman like a kill. I'm slow to anger, slow to know when I'm in danger; slower still to love. But when it happens for me, it lasts. Perhaps he will stay celibate-- a solitary palm, rising above all others. Or perhaps he'll plant nocturnal orchids to bloom in the moonlight of his bedroom. Perhaps he will prosper, bougainvillea clinging to a wall with inconspicuous if crimson flowers. Or, not a flower at all, a wandering jew, he can stretch upon the land like the fingers of a loving hand. Rain's gentle revolver riddles our sleep. We tongue of lightening, dark growl of thunder, bullets through our dreams. A hand to find a crease of flesh, unconscious fingers probing, a skinning that starts with a slit. And no one minds the trembling limbs as the hide is peeled. Some are born for love, others for the slaughter. Penitent rain. Cleansing rain. Sorry rain. Satiating rain. All these things we do that lovers do: begging you, licking you bathed in tears, chilling fears. Wake with a rapping at the window, an arm in a clinch around you. Tonight there'll be no recriminations. Only the soft spatter of water as the flesh is trimmed from the bone. She barely ate: a muffin for breakfast; little else all day. She said she hadn't made love to her husband for a year (half portions of plain fish for supper, no potatoes) who'd gone into mourning for his mother and even before, wanted no children. She said she was content with abstinence. Her lover ate voraciously: steak and fries and bacon for breakfast. His marriage, he said, even his friends called "heroic" (all afternoon sweets; supper seven courses) and his wife made love like a ritual so even when it was good it wasn't. That's why, he said, he could never get enough. Together for a tryst, they tried the local bistros. He cut down on desserts; She bucked up and ate. They made a feast of love. I spent till sunrise watching you, your restless breathes, your high-boned face, your nakedness defined in blue-gray light of quarter moon. You sighed and turned and still I stared, the thick curled know of jet-black hair tied up to bare a soft, strong neck, supple shoulders, the outline of small breasts. until you turned again toward me, eyes flickering in half-surprise. I spent till sunrise watching you, protector of your dreams and sighs. This warm air wrapping us a comfort for loss of love in our own climate. This moist, warm air a familiar hand but one we've forgotten after the slap of winter makes us smart. This textured air, palpable even as we breathe, filling our willing lungs with a moment's relief before we cry. The women who clean rooms at this southernmost motel gather outside our windows by 8 a.m. to gossip about a husband, gardener or house boy. In rapid Spanish they discuss their kids, the abuses of the boss and "Donde estan los toallas?"" Middle-income guest, annoyed to be awakened we pull the curtain, meet a woman's eyes as she loads her cart with freshly-laundered linen. He look apologetic, she shouts "Ferme la bocca,"" to her friends a floor below. "Shut up!" again in English to assure they'll be more quiet. The damage done, we lie wondering what life is like for those who stayed behind in Cuba. My machine reminds me that pipes freeze, the tenant has destroyed a carpet. Collection agents threaten in vindictive singsong. I tug at the receiver, tied to its black box. "Enter your code now to erase your messages." I play one high-pitched tone, grateful for long distances. If I had said, "Please stay," if I had said, "I'll go with you," would you have then been pleased or quickly run away? Each time in bed, I said, "I want to care," you only teased, as now you sign your letters cryptically, "X K," so I am left to guess it means you send your love. Or are you scripting me in lines so hard to read the words are dreams and I, fool, wanting love, fill in the lines with longings long held in a breathless creams? We thought our brief romance beneath Key pines would never last. We fooled ourselves it seems. You say my leaving you has left a space. For me, you are a love time can't erase.
DUET Late afternoon
Your jet flew over slant of sun just a day ago red maple buds
a straight path already swelling
tempered by the sea
that warms the Keys Straw lawns teeming
In London, you’ll light with green tendrils
your cottage stove Intimations of
I miss the warmth
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