Sonnet XX: Other

I never once had to glance behind
or pause to wonder whether you were there
or stopped myself from doing as I dare.
If I turned back, I know what I would find:
I'd see you there, your sharp, determined mind
on me and only me. I always flare
up with affection when you prove you care
and can't keep going. I face forward, blind.

And yet I always have to drag you out
and push you in and torture and harass
because you never run and never shout
and never see the rainbow in the glass.
If you were much less steady, I would doubt,
but maybe there'd be something to surpass.

French Formes Fixes for a Fairy Tale Frog

Rondeau.

My Princess, why balk at kissing
hideous frogs?
Their lips are as sweet as power.
Amidst all the painful hissing,
flattery slogs.
My Princess, why balk at kissing
hideous frogs?
The worship, the gifts you're missing
wait in the bogs
for you and your half-built tower.
My Princess, why balk at kissing
hideous frogs?
Their lips are as sweet as power.

As many as you can gather
is what you need,
the faster to build your plunder,
for out of the slime, they slather,
pander, and cede.
As many as you can gather
is what you need.
Unless there's a man you'd rather
rescue than bleed,
kiss them and steal their wonder.
As many as you can gather
is what you need,
the faster to build your plunder.


Ballade.

If you look deep into his golden eyes,
you might decide he's really rather cute.
When he looks up and sighs one of those sighs,
you may still argue, but your fears are moot;
no one on earth believes that he's a brute.
Test him with whims, and see how hard he tries,
and know that when his need for you has gone,
you'll wish you'd listened and had followed suit,
though he is good and may remain your pawn.


Virelai.

Motivation to do right
often issues from the fright
that you feel when others might
learn if you are false or true.

Also, if you're in the sight
of someone quite
powerful, the things you do

may get you rewards, or bright,
commending light,
or a crowd that worships you.

(I might also say: to fight
for what's good can shorten night,
gladden you, put fear to flight--
but these are, you think, your due...)

Motivation to do right
often issues from the fright
that you feel when others might
learn if you are false or true.

Sonnet XIX: Quiet, Quiet

I want the husband whom I once beguiled
to know the deepest thoughts I have to share,
but if I tell him how I think, he'll stare...
He'll be confused; he'll puzzle, quiet, mild--
for even in his fury, he's not wild--
but he'll be angry, he'll be scared. I care
too much to hurt his feelings. I don't dare.
He'll be annoyed and call me such a child...

That's why I won't reveal, in any case,
that sometimes I, to dull my aches (or try),
imagine someone punching in my face,
envision shredding up our mattress by
acquiring knives and stabbing through the lace,
that after he has gone to sleep, I cry.

Rondeau: Silver

A fistful of silver water
falls from my hand
and shimmers, becoming golden.

Like tears from a child, they totter,
drops in a strand.

A fistful of silver water
falls from my hand

and gradually getting hotter,
burns like a brand,
to worry and to embolden.

A fistful of silver water
falls from my hand,
and shimmers, becoming golden.

Four Poems for Ganymede in French Renaissance Form

Rondeau.

I wish I could be you, truly
taking your place,
be wonderful as a duty.
I envy the curls, unruly,
stroking your face.
I wish I could be you, truly
taking your place.
I want to be lovely, duly
covet your grace
and worship your godly beauty.
I wish I could be you, truly
taking your place,
be wonderful as a duty.


Virelai.

Tell, what does it mean to be
orbiting the Father’s free
love? And did you try to flee?
Of these wonders, do you tire?
Does it please you still to see
that you were the
object of his heartsick fire?
Is there power, knowing he
moves earth and sea
just to quench your whim’s desire?
Is it worth its galling fee?
When you’re dandled on his knee,
can you grow, like star, like tree?
Must you always call him Sire?
Tell, what does it mean to be
orbiting the Father’s free
love? And did you try to flee?
Of these wonders, do you tire?


Villanelle.

Around, around, around you go,
following close for the heavens’ glory-gift,
reflecting back the Father’s glow.
The red, like blood, a constant flow,
covering you like it did that day, thus, swift,
around, around, around you go.
The path you travel lets you show
all of his glory. It shines on you; you drift,
reflecting back the Father’s glow.
You’re treated like a child, you know;
know that at least he adores you and will shift.
Around, around, around you go.
How sad the child who’s weak and low,
yet has a lover who does not give or lift.
Reflecting back the Father’s glow,
you pity them, and, loving, grow
in every beam that he gives you to sift.
Around, around, around you go,
reflecting back the Father’s glow.


Ballade.

You might have been a hundred other things
if he had left you there to tend your sheep:
perhaps the brave progenitor of kings,
perhaps a peaceful prince who’d sow and reap
and sing his cattle to a quiet sleep.
Perhaps your heart would feel its share of stings,
and someone strong would leave you, torn and wrecked,
and all the innocence and youth you keep
turn to a need to comfort and protect.

You might have found an object of your own,
who could receive the presence of your soul,
all your adoring glances, every tone
of burning anguish. You might play this rôle
like you were born to it and reach your goal.
Instead, he froze you, and though time has flown
since then, you’ve kept the energy of youth,
all its enthusiasm, and the toll
for such a road as rape is losing truth.

Obsession & Compulsion

My beloved, only you are here with every heartbeat.
Only you can lift me higher up with every heartbeat.

More than any other, it is you for whom I hunger,
and you offer all that I desire with every heartbeat.

Every day, awake, I dream of you (when sleeping, never)
and the hunger that I have for you with every heartbeat.

Oh, how close I'd like to be to you: my neck, my fingers,
underneath my ribs, within my breast, with every heartbeat,

and along my wrists, and drifting up my arms, within me...
I envision you inside my blood with every heartbeat.

You bring freedom, wealth, eternal peace, and safety,
shining steely-silver in the light with every heartbeat.

I can think of nothing else for very long; you linger.
how I want to take you into me with every heartbeat!

And I know--I know--that when we come together quickly,
pain! and then no longer will I hurt with every heartbeat.

Diving deep, a flush of sorrow, youth forever, secrets:
all these things I welcome to myself with every heartbeat.

You and I perform a hundred thousand murders daily;
yet I live, my heart reminds my ears with every heartbeat.

How I want you! Why do I delay to pull you to me?
Out of fear? To heighten pleasure's pull with every heartbeat?

Soon, I promise, soon I will unsheathe you, little dagger.
We will sing a carol, unison, with every heartbeat.

Ballade

There are two rooms, and now, when it is night,
we stay inside. We choose to be alone
though we are lonely, though there is no light,
because we know, as deep as blood in bone,
that our two rooms have walls that creak and groan,
so thick we cannot ever exit, quite;
there are no doors, so, lonely and in pain,
we stay apart and suffer on our own.
There is no union, no unbroken chain.

But more than anything on earth, I want
that silver bond, the treasure that I missed:
two of one mind, awareness that would haunt
all of my thoughts. Yet, it does not exist,
neither for me nor anyone. We’ve kissed,
but all for nothing. Kisses only taunt,
intimate, true, but false and cheap and vain,
and for two souls to keep eternal tryst
is, I believe, a dream we can’t attain.

So maybe that’s the silly reason why
I dream—of telepathic childhood friends,
teams with two players, promises to die
at the same moment, cycles without ends,
ropes and red strings and tea-and-coffee blends,
opposites, circles, coins, a watchful eye,
knowing and being known, salvation, twins—
grasping this fiction and the want it sends:
not to know where I stop and he begins.

Taste

I love my mouth,
and there's a lot of stuff I willingly put into it
(like umbrella handles,
and other people's water bottle spouts,
and even earwax--'cause sometimes it's worth it),
but there are a few things
that I never want to taste again:
slimy, slimy eggplant,
burnt tinfoil
(although the pink lightning in the microwave
was totally almost worth it),
and defeat.