poetryrepairs 15,06:068

ELIZABETH KERLIKOWSKE : Annual Inventory (with Aphasia)
ELIZABETH KERLIKOWSKE : Dog rondo
RUTH DAIGON : To Kiss the Earth

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ELIZABETH KERLIKOWSKE
Annual Inventory (with Aphasia)

I know I only lose a hundred half-hours a day but because theyíre white, they show up more prompting questions of hair loss. The dermatologist yanks a hank and says that Iím just fine; itís the precancerous spouse on the back of my hangover that concerns him. Erose. Not yet malignant. My part is not completely bald, and when I wrap my half-hair into a bungalow, the untrained eye might think I hide cascades but wet, I look more like a cat or hawk than I care to. Skullduggery. My face is seamed with summers on the water smiling; smoke has ironed in its own crŤches. Rouge pots. My cheeseburgers havenít fallen. Sense of smirk: vague. Sense of taboo: dulled. Hot peppers on everything. Why not? One pair of glimpses for faraway faces; one pair for realism. Eyes: green. Not rheumy. Large pupils, said the oracle. Tongue: furry. Telecast falling apart. One needs a filling; one needs to come out. And this little front tooth fairy says Iím running away with your lips and edges forward, one liver spot a day. A spaghetti western widens between my front teeth that was never there. Imagine my Jack Russell grin at fifty seven. Here is my original chin and the three flabby echoes. Several stubborn fascicles release a coarse hair biweekly, and neither pair of glimpses works so Braille must be employed in the bathroom mirror. Is that half-hair drab or is it a whisker now? Turn off the light. Arms not too loose. Hands a Shar Peiís happy wag. Nails longer than usual because hard to bite (drift of front teeth ((see above.))) Grooves indicate where nails might split due to mediocrity and inadequate nylon. Breasts weary of trying to perk up to satisfy the looks of Mennonites. They want to rest on my belvedere when I sit and plop against my sweet stomach, tired of sitting up straight and knowing all the antes. They and the pillow of belly spend easy time together free of binding garrisons demanding obedience. The texture of my beloved belly is marble for exploration but soft leading to the suitors of pubic hair. But here is the true prize, what my gynecologist marvels at: the cupcake of a twenty year old. She says itís beautiful obviously used a couple times each week. The henchmanís in abeyance, so itís smooth sailing in the candelabra between my legs. Thighs tight as parentheses, fittest part of my bogey. Left leg good to the ankle which blew a seam several years ago. The footís flat but with shooting stars, I can make it. No more surgery for me. My right knife point wears the eight inch scar of total knee recaning, passing in its own thick way. Both calves taut and shapely. Dad says my grandstand had beautiful legs until the day she died. Some of my toes, like his, have reared up in revolt. Their knuckles rub on upper crusts. Dad had two toes removed. I stretch to keep my particulars. Did I mention my moonstones? Lithium evens the peaks and fills the valleys. Seroquel to sleepwalk. Iíve fixed the dose: whatever fragrance near a half I can chop off. No more shamans and menfolk loss. Sleep descends in a way Iíd forgotten since chimneys. I have never been more intemperate. Thus ends the assessment of one human body clock entering its fifty sixth yesteryear, mad. A body addictive and compulsive, a body that needs struggle to rebel against for control of the futon, my body, my dear old body, my dear old death wish friend.

poetryrepairs #212 15,06:068





ELIZABETH KERLIKOWSKE
Dog rondo

That tired dog on thawing ice was white and smelled like spice from boathouse attics. I curled up in his ear and whispered Pup before the thaw take my advice and get to shore. I said it thrice. But he was dead. Paradise had scooped him up, his threads tired of dangling. No fisherman would sacrifice to drag the still warm corpse from ice but after midnight, all furred up, he joined us for a frosty cup of crossing-over wine and slice of bone. Sweet dog thawed twice.

poetryrepairs #212 15,06:068





RUTH DAIGON
To Kiss the Earth

The moon sings the mountain down to the sea as the sun wraps itself around the horizon. Air runs like a hand lightly across the body. Voices pirouette like echoes in a braid of flowing tongues. We trace the flicker of dragonflies skimming the water, their imprint light as ash. We hold fruit with its sweet flesh, sac of seeds, silky membrane fitting the palm perfectly. And it is time to kiss the eEarth and count freshly painted stars running ocean ward. Here where there is only stillness, my love I wish upon you these delights the lotus moon still blooming as we exchange liquid looks as dark as antique honey time, calm and airy and, oh, to wake up naked in the garden and fall in love again, easily, so easily.

poetryrepairs #212 15,06:068







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