Love Machine

Dashboard Hula girls dance

mile after mile as the gas tank hits

empty and we stop,

fill up on fuel, Mars bars,

beer. Someone, at some time,

has posted poetry

on the van's blue and white walls:

Tomorrow we'll see

the night in a

Costa Rica light.

He calls it the love machine,

I call it our ticket to San Jose.

Mexican serape blankets are piled in mountains

on our knees, ankles, feet. The heating

broke in Tamarindo and he doesn't want to stop

to get it fixed. No one said it got cold

in Costa Rica.

The radio is broken too,

plays Getaway Van over and over

and over but if we turn it off, all we hear

is the hum of asphalt, the bellow

of the missing muffler.

Silence.

There is no swish and sway

of hula girls' grass skirts

when the radio's off.

Kitchen Dance

He brings you roses

the same color red as the blood pouring from your nose.

His apology,

because he never says he's sorry.

The same color red as the blood pouring from your nose.

An awkward smile, tries to kiss you

because he never says he's sorry.

Doesn't understand if you can't forgive him.

An awkward smile, tries to kiss you.

Stutters, stumbles, can never get the words out.

Doesn't understand if you can't forgive him.

Always gives you something: wrapping paper, bows.

Stutters, stumbles, can never get the words out.

Chocolates, flowers, gems.

Always gives you something: wrapping paper, bows.

Bites his lip and drums his fingers on the table top, doesn't want to talk about it.

Chocolates, flowers, gems.

His apology.

Bites his lip and drums his fingers on the table top, doesn't want to talk about it.

He brings you roses.

Divorcing Harry

Because you are impossible

to tie down.

Handcuffs and straitjacket, your hands, tongue,

lips unlock everything.

We are being buried alive; cedar coffins,

dirt. You can escape

from anything, even when

you're six feet under, but I

am suffocating.

Your weight, a full deck of cards

fanned out above me.

You know all the tricks.

Because it's Chinese Water torture

and you can hold your breath

longer than I can. Because I finally understand

it's just the act. Deceiving. Deception.

Delusion. When you cut me in half,

claim to put me back

together again while the audience

applauds.

Because you bow.

Caddy Bay

I want to go back to Gyro park,

scale the Cadborosaurus, fins wet

from last night's rain. Reach

the top of his concrete head, sit on

his back where we could see

the ocean stretch out from the shore.

You'd show me where you saw him last

bathing in the bay. Take me down the beach

in search of jellyfish, octopi, giant

sea serpents hiding in the waves,

yellow fins exposed, waiting for us

to climb on, ride away.

Waves

When you died, Peter, we knew you didn't want to be six feet under, weighed down by dirt and worms. At your funeral, we complained that you were too far from the ocean, couldn't taste salt in the air. No one listened. They were too busy shifting in their black stockings, uncomfortable in the bright sun. We cried with them Pete, upset that we couldn't wear blue and green and white, the color of the waves when it's windy.

You never were a city boy, better fitted to sand and surf. We could imagine you fidgeting in your coffin, desperate for your swim trunks and sandals, not the itchy suit they dressed you in. But we knew we could bring the ocean to you, went home and filled our pails with sand and starfish. It was lucky after your funeral; the water was calm, a flat expanse of cobalt stretching out into nothingness. It was so clear we could see straight to the bottom, made it easy to fish out sand dollars, sea stars, scallops. When it got dark and the stars were phosphorescent, we walked back through the graveyard, water sloshing onto our toes. Your grave was already full of dirt, trampled down by heavy feet, but we were determined. We found an empty grave nearby, filled it with seawater, urchins crawling up the sides. We even left some seashells for you Pete, so that when you got lonely, missed the blue of Cordova Bay, you could press them to your ear and hear the crash of waves against the shore.

Neruda

I am tired of writing
about love, how you didn't

want to kiss me, would rather talk

Pablo. Veinte poemas

de amor y una cancion desesperada.

Twenty poems of love and one desperate song,

move my tongue along the edges

of your chin, jaw bone, lick
the words spilling from your lips;

beso, amor, paciencia.

I am close enough to hear you

whispering love, poetry rolling

off your tongue but I don't want to

listen. Move closer, let my mouth show you, little by little

where Pablo got his inspiration from.

Metro

It's easy to forget
where you met him, on the

crowded metro, taking

St. Paul to Charles de Gaulle

Etoile. He gave you his

seat. Said his stop was soon

anyway. You had been

on your feet all day, dragged

down by shopping, tired children,

worn, weeping pendulums

suspended from your arms.

It's easy to forget

why the oven clock is

ticking, time for dinner,

time for laundry, time for

lullabies. Your husband

is pouring six o'clock

martinis, slicing up

Camembert, strawberries,

baguette. He gave you his

seat, said you needed it

more than he did. The thrust

of elbows, tourists, knees,

of fingers loosening

the dishes in the sink.

So easy to forget

the weight of wedding rings.

Let Us Make Love

At midnight I am lost in someone else's poem. Feel my way blindly through foreign streets, stumble over cobble stones and past foreign lovers that call out my name. Their words are hushed whispers, promises of love, poetry that rolls of their Italian tongues like gelato melting against my lips. Let it echo down narrow ally ways, over Michelangelo's Bacchus. Sleeping Cupid. When it starts to rain, I can hardly see through the downpour of words that stream over my eyelids and into my mouth. They taste expensive, silky like the lining of Armani suits or perfect Italian leather. They sing like opera divas; "Facciamo l'amore! Facciamo l'amore!" Let us make love! Let us make love!

Salsa Night

If we could dance the Salsa

when you are unable to sleep,

drum our feet over the hardwood

floors until we collapse, breathless.

Uno, dos, you'd dance, tres, cuatro,

in your baby dolls, Cuban style.

Salsaaaaa! echale salsita, echale salsita!

If we could dance the salsa

when you are unable to sleep,

I'd make you mojitos, spin you

past the dresser, drink in one hand,

the taste of rum staining your lips.

If we could dance the salsa

when you are unable to sleep,

you'd mirror my movements, Guapea,

spin back one-two, forward six, seven.

In slippers, you'd be the ideal

height for dancing, make my heart beat

Amor Perfecto. You would be

a blur spinning too fast to stop.

If we could dance the salsa

the couple next door would complain

when you are unable to sleep.

Red silk pajamas flashing past the keyhole

when they knock on the door. If he

told us in Spanish how the noise

kept them up at night, I'd tell him

to learn the salsa, entice his

girl with Neruda and dancing.

She'd never want to sleep again.

Spring

When it rains, stand naked in the garden just to feel you

dripping off my lips. The smell of fresh earth.

When it's springtime, I bury myself

amongst peonies and tulips, the weight of sodden soil

between my toes. Let it pour.

Let rain drops trickle down my back, rivers

between my breasts.

You are the season of new beginnings, finish

hanging raindrops from my navel so that I can wrap my legs around

you, feel your rough hands along my waist. When it finally stops,

I'll stretch my arms up to feel the sun,

your lips against my fingertip. Watch as you turn

the grass green and send the garden into bloom.

Stained

With you, it was easy
to get carried away. Let you wrap your words

around me, felt them tug

at my fingertips, the straps
of my bra, pulled my lips

closer to yours.

You talked me through it, step by step

instructions to kiss

here, touch there, wraped

my body around yours, legs

and arms, showed me

how it was the perfect fit.

Awkward, clumsy, struggled

with the zipper on your jeans but you just

kissed the down turned corners

of my lips, whispered
everything would be okay.

We seemed disproportioned

in the darkness, worry

that spilled off the bed, cluttered the floor, lost

amongst strewn socks, shorts, abandoned

underwear.

You said knew what you were doing

and I believed you, watched in amazement

afterwards as you plunged

your sheets into cold water, deftly removed

stains of red.

Sixteen

He dreams about 4X4ing,

motors, mud, and me,

of how you can feel yourself

sink when the ground

is too soft, the rumble

of engines and the taste of sweat.

"Built Ford Tough"

There are callouses on his hands,

rough from working overtime.

He drums his fingers on the steering wheel

and on my knees, says that he's ready

to go. The guys are yelling,

press their feet against the gas,

shoot forward so fast the seat belts

cut into our abdomens.

Everything happens

in a flash of dirt and tires,

flying bodies

as we sail over over mounds of earth, scream

at the top of our lungs.

Cracks

We make love

in the middle of the day, leave the lights

on. But we are only pretending

to be brave, wrap the covers around

our limbs. Leave nothing

exposed.

After, get dressed

under the blankets, fold ourselves

back into layers of clothing. Bra, t-shirt,

shorts, he still doesn't know

about the line of freckles that stretch

from my shoulder blade to bellybutton.

Sometimes, he mumbles

I love you, doesn't mean it though,

refuses to look me in the eye, focuses

a little too far

to one side.

I'm not always sure

what I'm doing there, amongst his strewn

mess, his faded blue sheets, distract myself

counting cracks in the walls.