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Some Days			

I can't stand how ballet
is addictive as some
lovers. It's the red
shoes in the blood,
you know that obsession.
How even pain won't
let you walk away. 
What's rubbed raw as
where a lover's pulled
from so fast there should
be skid marks, never 
has a chance to become
tough or heal. You're
worn out. It's the same
thing over and over. I open
my legs like a wish bone,
bend backward more
than I can without 
cracking. For a once
chubby pre teen, ballet is
a demon lover, taunting,
demanding, an agony it's
impossible to resist.
Who can be cautious,
go easy I sigh, pulling on
tights the way I would
a man who I know 
in the end will leave me
broken, but for a little
while makes me so high
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Don't You Sometimes, Even if You're in That			

sort of love you don't
need to write about, 
miss that first touch
wildness? When you're 
not sure you will but 
you really do? When it
is still so new it's almost
electric and you don't
know his taste. Let's 
pretend that first kiss
wasn't dry, a brush
off even with the week
end ahead and imagine
something that didn't
is coming. Of course it
is a thick heavy southern
night and it's before
you realize his being late
to the reading wasn't an 
accident, before he 
won't show up the last
day where you'd have been
stranded except for a 
woman you will leave
out: there's no reason for
her to be contaminated.
Forget the e mail
before, seductive, more
seductive than any flesh 
lover or the black hole
when you fly to opposite
coasts. Just think of the
moments you used to have
all the time with new men,
before one became what
of course you wanted, a
comfortable lover who
wouldn't leave you 
vulnerable, knocking
skin off the knuckles in
your blood trying to get
thru. The light going down
behind palm trees you
want to forget rats live in
and he shows up after 3 years of
e mail foreplay with a screw driver 
since he doesn't know, forgot
to ask what kind of margarita
you prefer and you drink it from
the glass his lips have touched,
the closet you get to them and 
there's a rush, your sheet black 
tight dress sliding up and down
at the same time as you imagine
other moves in his arms and 
those hunky legs, longer and
harder than you imagined


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POETRYrepairs v07.05:049


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When I See She is Reading Thursday			

I think of the last
reading, halfway in
to chemo. I don't
remember her hair
any different but how,
after a few hours
she nodded off. It
was the first time I
remember her with
out a cigarette. Her
husband joking, she
applauded the others,
read a short poem
herself. Half a year
between when he
helped her out of
the chair, when they
left early. And the
news: palliative 
only, spread to the
pancreas, brain
stem. I sent yellow
tulips. "She will be
home in a few 
days on e mail from
her daughter. "She's
had her favorite,
pepperoni. I'm not 
sure she knows what her
friends know. I think 
how she would 
intimidate me with 
her strength, took over
the room, the work
shop, kept it in control
as I know she will
reading as if there was
nothing special, one 
more in a string of what,
like all she's taken
charge of she is
sure she still can
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