Five by Lyn Lifshin
IT'S LIKE THE ROSE I CARRIED THRU WINDY AIRPORT RUNWAYS
already dying.
Only tea rose in
my hair made
people turn, gasp
at withered
petals, imagine
those leaves
were filling the
room with a
sweetness. I
wanted to trap
that color
in melted candles.
I'd have frozen
it in a dictionary
because of whose
lips had touched
it, like where
you touched Sunday
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
MAYBE HE HAD JUST READ HEART OF DARKNESS
or it was the moon
refusing to give up
its bald head, glowing
like a huge hole
longer than was natural
when he got to where he
wanted to be in me
at the end he's ship
wreck and saw me
as a black river
he couldn’t get a
way inside. Dark water
already stained his
hands and he was
dizzy from a strange
fever. But he had
chosen this trip, he
wanted to get to where
when he didn't. he
felt lost in fog and
dreams and night
mare. When he
pressed me into his
skin, then
it was as if every
thing close to
him was mirror.
He saw bodies and
glistening skin in
my leaves. It was
hard to breathe.
The dark held
him like hands
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
DEPRESSION
a black sand black
waves are licking,
making holes the
darkest water
rises in. Mid
night floods the
house, climbs
stairs like a
six foot 3 dancer
in a hurry. Soon
the quilt's drenched
in it. Dressers
float toward the
street. The waves
lap words from
poems, strip
Tuesday of its
green like a
tree becoming
driftwood
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
ANOTHER YOUNG WOMAN DISAPPEARS IN THE TREES
on a night I drove
lost on dark streets
with people leering
on stoops the first
March night it's close
to 80. She took a bus
on a parallel street
feeling the night air
that made my hair
curly, my skin melt
under pink leather
pants the day after
my car broke down
on the road where she
was last seen walking,
stopped suddenly in
the windy light, cars
slamming past. I was
lucky the man who
stopped took me to the
garage. She'd decided
to save money maybe
so hitched or walked
with a knapsack like
the book bag I carried.
Air wild, smelling of
things unfolding. Her
hair long and amber too.
You might suppose she
isn't missing, but
escaped in my clothes,
is hanging out some
where inside me. But I've
put whatever's most
vulnerable in me outside
me, so it's hardened,
is the leather I use as a
disguise. She still
believed in everything
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
AFTER THE READING
the man with a rubber
band around "Death
in the Afternoon"
lumbers up
to the podium, asks
for my autograph on a
Greyhound ticket,
keeps pointing his
finger to Hemingway's
name, says they
don't have TV there
but there's more
inside and asks.
shaking, stopping
between words like
a deer that hears
something rustling
in the leaves, if I know
about dementia praecox.
Stubble on his cheek,
a silky red tie, his
long fingers tug at,
eyes like marbles
in a jar in a car that
zig zags thru corners,
pale light banging
into glass
