from Hush Sessions

He got that a rocket was meant to love the ground
as a shirt would, if thrown there. He assured her
and she wept. He assured her
she should not weep
for this, but her eyes were caught
like an arm in this big machine of tears. Is this not beautiful,
she asked, as she refused a napkin.
His handkerchief was nearby, which he did not hand her.
The trees were too petty to blossom
when weeping latched onto him—she passed
a plate for what might form petals in their falling.

+ § +

The house decorated like a teacup no longer
spilled into particular rooms. He was tired, she was tired.
Then the combs began—there was something secretive
about them, something rocklike toward her window-dark hair.
Plastic teeth scripted oaths over her own. Ambassadors,
she said, her hair at rest, then, to him,
the bicycles have become useless fountains.
Buckets weighted down her hands.

+ § +

It was a very over-the-shoulder way of dealing with it,
but the wine key came out anyway
like something esteemed. Who shall, you shall
was the shallow hollering they committed
under the awning, until one of them froze.
He admitted her imitation of a baseball mitt
very convincing. Until what jutted toward her.

+ § +

All the lights come on as headaches—the bulbs must go,
who said, whose demands dismantled such. There were many
of these brief vacations through the cupboard. They enjoyed
the way things felt in their hands.

+ § +

The blue tablecloth was a gift. He had taken to globes.
They took turns over a glass stuffed with olives over
the tablecloth. June has the best shape to it, she insisted.
He made a calculator with each button
a version of June. Numbers were none.
They were careful as prepositions with each other
when the gifts grew dull. In an innocent manner one inquired
of the corridor, lengthwise, a throat could become.
Whoever finds a ghost for it first
was their bet.

Copyright © 2006 Kristi Maxwell All rights reserved
from Backwards City Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission