Poet
He says he's no poet
and then observes how gin
smells like loneliness.
I can only feed from his slough
as all parasites do,
flashing mirrors at his moonstone eyes
then wiping away the steam
to reveal an outline
fragile as the broken razor.
No poet, he says. I say nothing,
my face pressed in the dint
of his pillow; inhaling the scent
of juniper berries.
Late August
On the last day
she wore a yellow dress,
French perfume
and joie de vivre.
Sunlight spilled
into all the crevices.
She pressed her knees
into his thighs
and the breeze romped
in waves of lemon.
She said she was afraid
of enclosed spaces;
said she loved thunderstorms,
said goodbye
in not so many words.
After that he sold the bike,
dropped Tai Chi
and took up golf;
squinting into the fairway
and wondering
why the sun in his eyes
made him cry.
Copyright © 2002 Jaina Hart