Plumbing

When something finally bursts, Amber

won't call the plumber, instead, digs

out her overalls, spare valves and new pipes,

stands alone, water weighing down

the hem of her jeans. She refuses

help. Amber will have no man

beneath her sink, would rather stare

dumbly at her wrench, the flow of water

slowly drowning her linoleum, puddles

that warp black and white checkers, floorboards

that buckle, make everything

uneven.

Avoidance

When the weather refuses to dip

below zero, head to the white mountains

of the hockey arena.

Explorers, pioneers, triumphant

as we stake our claim, curl fists

around clumps of abandoned snow.

Too busy playing to watch

slow forming puddles that gather

by discarded toques, dusty snow boots.

Hurl armfuls of snow at one another,

onto the pavement and into the air, fill the sky

with the sound of laughter, shouting,

an endless stream of snowballs.

As the day wears on and our arms grow tired, our aim

less accurate, still attempt to save ourselves

from oncoming missiles, fatigue,

the too hot sun.

By Moonlight

They woke me at midnight, whispers

that lured me

into my slippers and down the hall
to the drawing room.

They wanted loose.

Slipped off me like silk.
Shivered, shimmered, shimmied

down my legs, craved

a little freedom.

They had me against the desk.

There was no holding back, shouts

and moans that made themselves heard

in apartment eight above us, number two

next door.

Pens and paper tumbling onto the floor

left scratch marks on my skin,

my hair done up in tangles.

It was a fit of passion, words that plummeted, plunged,

danced their way from line to line, the edges

of their lips hot against my thighs,

laced themselves between my fingers and my toes.

Naked on the hardwood floor, arched my back

against the roar

of stanzas, ballads, elegies crashing

down around me.

Shook the chandelier.

Chelsea Dagger

Makes you want to dance naked,

slide across the parquet in nothing

but a pair of socks, the radio stuck on

repeat.

Sing at the top of your lungs, scream

and shout Chelsea, so that I can hear you

from the street, watch you

twist and spin, your hair

flying up around your face.

Let the windowpanes rattle

with all that noise. You're

working up a sweat, know

the boys get lonely after you leave.

Chelsea, your hips are flying, your fingers

pulse with the beat, feet a blur

as you rock through the kitchen.

The rhythm pulls me closer, I could be

your regular belle, let me dance,

let me dip you, spin you, turn

your world upside down.

Dance with me just for the hell of it.

Giselle

The show is about to start and all we can see are feet,
wrapped and bound, feel the wooden floor
for knots. In the gap

between curtain and stage
twenty pairs of ballet slippers arc
and bend, pirouettes that make leotards blur.

When the curtains rise, our eyes
rise too, focus for a moment
on faces instead of feet.
But my attention is caught midway, amazed
by the sea of protruding hips, wrists, rib cages that rise
to jut above tutus, imagine
bones and bloody toes tucked carefully
behind pink silk, delicately made up
faces, flesh pulled too tight.

I think of Giselle, the whisper
of Russian voices, so beautiful
they say, watch her panting body

collapsed

in the middle of the stage,
as the audience
weeps.

Demeter and Persephone

It's raining,

West Coast rain that sticks

to the cedars, maple leaves,

eyelashes, her white shirt

dripping and transparent, clings

to her chest, ribs, bones.

You kiss her eyelids, nose,

lips, know her mother is waiting

for her to return.

Bark is digging into her back,

mascara carving black rivers

down her cheeks.

You feel guilty

as you peel off layers of wet

clothes, searching for her

pale skin, let her dress, slip, stockings fall

onto pine needles, into puddles.

Your lips are moving across her collarbone,

neck, cheeks. You have finally found

Persephone, after days, months, years

of searching. But your are still hiding

from her mother.

Constellations

You can just see the edge
of the Little Dipper
through the tent's open flaps.
Tell me how he knows all of the constellations,
where each freckle landed
on your arm and how he
tasted sweet, like apples,
fire wood, damp earth. Kissed
his way from star to star.

Normally, you don't want
to talk about Simon,
about last fall, the stars
you can't name or how he
left when the ground turned hard.
But this Autumn, you're done
memorizing the night
skies. You crave Orion.
Show me Andromeda
suspended weightlessly
in the sky above us.

The Color of Love

Simon, I can't stop wasting ink on you. Your name clings, suspended from the tip of my pen as I drag you over my paper, again and again. You leave a messy streak on everything you touch, the coffee stains on my teak table. And even with you gone, Simon, they're still there. Round reminders of what went wrong. You had the knack of making everything cluttered, always took up too much space, too large for my tiny apartment. Even now, you fill my room with mountains of crumpled notes, sonnets and elegies, novellas. They say it's inspiration but, really, Simon, it's invasion. Every inch of you fills my notebooks, makes the pages cramped. Nothing's changed and I'm tired of writing about you, how you always tucked your fingers in my pockets, as though you couldn't hold me any closer. The way you sighed in your sleep. You're gone Simon, and all you've left me with is endless cursive, odes to your lips, the way they stayed limp, suspended at your sides, did nothing to stop me from walking away. My margins are full. There is no more room to breath, my heavy pen, the weight of your hand in mine. A thousand miles apart and Simon, you're still bleeding all over my paper. Ink running down the pages stains my finger tips blue. The color of love.