Fuck yr heroes, I'm saving myself.
Daphne Gottliebyou can take this mouth
this wound you want
but you can't kiss
and make it
better.
Tags: passion poetry sex marriage relationships
This week
in live current
events: your eyes.
All power can be
dangerous:
Direct
or alternating,
you, socket to me.
Plugged in and the grid
is humming,
this electricity,
molecule-deep desire:
particular friction, a charge
strong enough to stop
a heart
or start it
again; volt, re-volt--
I shudder, I stutter, I start
to life. I've got my ion
you, copper-top,
so watch how you
conduct yourself.
Here's today's
newsflash: a battery of rolling
blackouts in California, sudden,
like lightning kisses:
sudden, whitehot
darkness and you're
here, fumbling for
that small switch
with an urgent surge
strong enough to kill
lesser machines.
Static makes hair raise,
makes things cling,
makes things rise like
a gathering storm
charging outside
our darkened house
and here I am:
tempest, pouring out
mouthfulls
of tsunami on the ground,
I've got that rain-soaked kite,
that drenched key.
You know what it's for,
circuit-breaker, you know
how to kiss until it's hertz.
come back so i can say yes this time do it again now that i know what to call what you did
this time i'll be ready i like it rough now and i'm done with romance i never met another man who loved me so much at first sight he had to hurt me to do it
All the black leather
she needs
is the E-Z boy recliner
where her love is parked
with one of his hands wrapped around a remote,
the other, a bottle of beer.
She's right. It's kinky.
The way he doesn't look away
from the TV,
as her head bobs
in his lap
like a fisherman's float
on a nature program,
hectic
with the pace
his breath sets.
His crotch swells
under her mouth's
prowess. He's such
a sweetheart
he waits
until the
commercials
to come.
Tags: poetry relationships
There is nothing
going on. I took nothing
you wanted. You can't
have it back.
Tags: poetry the-other-woman
MY MOTHER GETS DRESSED
It is impossible for my mother to do even
the simplest things for herself anymore
so we do it together,
get her dressed.
I choose the clothes without
zippers or buckles or straps,
clothes that are simple
but elegant, and easy to get into.
Otherwise, it's just like every other day.
After bathing, getting dressed.
The stockings go on first.
This time, it's the new ones,
the special ones with opaque black triangles
that she's never worn before,
bought just two weeks ago
at her favorite department store.
We start with the heavy, careful stuff of the right toes
into the stocking tip
then a smooth yank past the knob of her ankle
and over her cool, smooth calf
then the other toe
cool ankle, smooth calf
up the legs
and the pantyhose is coaxed to her waist.
You're doing great, Mom,
I tell her
as we ease her body
against mine, rest her whole weight against me
to slide her black dress
with the black empire collar
over her head
struggle her fingers through the dark tunnel of the sleeve.
I reach from the outside
deep into the dark for her hand,
grasp where I can't see for her touch.
You've got to help me a little here, Mom
I tell her
then her fingertips touch mine
and we work her fingers through the sleeve's mouth
together, then we rest, her weight against me
before threading the other fingers, wrist, forearm, elbow, bicep
and now over the head.
I gentle the black dress over her breasts,
thighs, bring her makeup to her,
put some color on her skin.
Green for her eyes.
Coral for her lips.
I get her black hat.
She's ready for her company.
I tell the two women in simple, elegant suits
waiting outside the bedroom, come in.
They tell me, She's beautiful.
Yes, she is, I tell them.
I leave as they carefully
zip her into
the black body bag.
Three days later,
I dream a large, green
suitcase arrives.
When I unzip it,
my mother is inside.
Her dress matches
her eyeshadow, which matches
the suitcase
perfectly. She's wearing
coral lipstick.
"I'm here," she says, smiling delightedly, waving
and I wake up.
Four days later, she comes home
in a plastic black box
that is heavier than it looks.
In the middle of a meadow,
I learn a naked
more than naked.
I learn a new way to hug
as I tighten my fist
around her body,
my hand filled with her ashes
and the small stones of bones.
I squeeze her tight
then open my hand
and release her
into the smallest, hottest sun,
a dandelion screaming yellow at the sky.
Tags: death mothers daughters mothers-and-daughters
I KNEW IT WAS OVER
when tonight you couldn't make the phone ring
when you used to make the sun rise
when trees used to throw themselves
in front of you
to be paper for love letters
that was how i knew i had to do it
swaddle the kids we never had
against january's cold slice
bundle them in winter
clothes they never needed
so i could drop them off at my mom's
even though she lives on the other side of the country
and at this late west coast hour is
assuredly east coast sleeping
peacefully
her house was lit like a candle
the way homes should be
warm and golden
and home
and the kids ran in
and jumped at the bichon frise
named lucky
that she never had
they hugged the dog
it wriggled
and the kids were happy
yours and mine
the ones we never had
and my mom was
grand maternal, which is to say, with style
that only comes when you've seen
enough to know grace
like when to pretend it's christmas or
a birthday so
she lit her voice with tiny
lights and pretended
she didn't see me crying
as i drove away
to the hotel connected to the bar
where i ordered the cheapest whisky they had
just because it shares your first name
because they don't make a whisky
called baby
and i only thought what i got
was what
i ordered
i toasted the hangover
inevitable as sun
that used to rise
in your name
i toasted the carnivals
we never went to
and the things you never won
for me
the ferris wheels we never
kissed on and all the dreams
between us
that sat there
like balloons on a carney's board
waiting to explode with passion
but slowly deflated
hung slave
under the pin-
prick of a tack
hung
heads down
like lovers
when it doesn't
work, like me
at last call
after too many cheap
too many sweet
too much
whisky makes me
sick, like the smell of cheap,
like the smell of
the dead
like the cheap, dead flowers
you never sent
that i never threw
out of the window
of a car
i never
really
owned
Tags: poetry relationships breakups
GONE TO STATIC
it sounds better than it is,
this business of surviving,
making it through
the wrong place
at the wrong time
and living
to tell.
when the talk shows and movie credits
wear off, it's just me and my dumb
luck. this morning
I had that dream again:
the one where I'm dead.
I wake up and nothing's
much different. everything's gone
sepia, a dirty bourbon glass
by the bed, you're
still dead.
I could stumble
to the shower,
scrub the luck of breath off my skin
but it's futile.
the killer always wins.
it's just a matter
of time.
and I have
time. I have grief and liquor to
fill it. tonight, the liquor and I are
talking to you. the liquor says, 'remember'
and I fill in the rest, your hands, your smile.
all those times. remember.
tonight the liquor and I
are telling you about our day.
we made it out of bed. we miss you.
we were surprised by the blood between
our legs. we miss you. we made it to the video
store, missing you. we stopped
at the liquor store
hoping the bourbon would stop
the missing. there's always more
bourbon, more missing
tonight, when we got home,
there was a stray cat
at the door.
she came in.
she screams to be touched.
she screams
when I touch her.
she's right
at home.
not me.
the whisky is open
the vcr is on.
I'm running
the film backwards
and one by one
you come back to me,
all of you.
your pulses stutter to a begin
your eyes go from fixed to blink
the knives come out of your chests, the chainsaws
roar out
from your legs
your wounds seal over
your t-cells multiply, your tumors shrink
the maniac killer
disappears
it's just you and me
and the bourbon and the movie
flickering together
and the air breathes us and I
am home, I am
lucky
I am right
before everything
goes black
As she bends for a Kleenex in the dark, I am thinking of other girls: the girl I loved who fell in love with a lion--she lost her head over it--we just necked a lot; of the girl who fell in love with the tightrope, got addicted to getting high wired and nothing else was enough; all the beautiful, damaged women who have come through my life and I wonder what would have happened if I'd met them sooner, what they were like before they were so badly wounded. All this time I thought I'd been kissing, but maybe I'm always doing mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, kissing dead girls in hopes that the heart will start again. Where there's breath, I've heard, there's hope.
Daphne GottliebPage 1 of 2.
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