She 72: “When with my last breath” and other poems

She 72: “When with my last breath”

When with my last breath

I whisper your name,

will you still not wince

from all we’ll have left

unsaid? Will you claim

yourself unconvinced

by my delusions,

insist you have cooled,

and choke with surprise

when hearing the news on

how much I was fooled

by you? It defies

everything I’ve known

yet to be enthralled

and stuck like a bee

to a honeycomb

against you, appalled

at my own sweet fidelity.

---

The Scar

As when you’re out of breath from running hard

and can’t make out the path in front of you,

I woke to glimpse my father’s right cheek scarred,

like my chin with its birthmark. Too soon, though,

he faded, fading too the calm his eyes

(staring at me asleep) had filled the room with.

I struggled to keep him there, to memorize,

at least, his face -- and set afloat that gray myth

on my night river’s static curve, for now,

before returning to my dreams: tick tock

like clockwork, deep REMs keeping measure. How,

the next day, I recalled and did not block

his scar, familiarly strange -- and so close! --

at this last stage of my life, God only knows.

---

Disputation

A difference of opinion sparks,

like hand to doorknob, rough

rebuffs – her unrestrained remarks:

Fuck you. I’ve had enough

of your superior bullshit,

the shock not great, but quick

and unprepared for, faint at first,

the needle, not the stick,

shooting its serum through your vein,

once it circulates

to take you down, never the same

when someone you love hates

what you’ve said, so makes you jerk and cringe.

You shuffle too much, rub

the wrong surfaces too long, cling

when you should slough off, sub-

jugate, not conjugate. But then

you find yourself no more

quiet but burned, as her words send

crisp waves across the floor

into your brain – where you remain

indefatigably stunned,

without power for hours, deranged,

despite the spat is done.