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Editor's
Note
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Three
Poems
by
John Grey
Her First
Trip Overseas
She’s
in France and her plants wither.
their
stamens, petals, curling up brown and lifeless,
for
want of her loving.
Her
ancient empire is nothing more
than
tendrils desiccated with old blood,
a
corner of Providence, Rhode Island:
burning
to the ground for all she knows,
its
residents carved up by pestilence.
She’s
always despised the testimony of the past,
preferred
having nothing to leave, to ever go home to.
She
longed to disappear in tourist sites, statues,
historical
artifacts, archaeological diggings.
People
needed to be foreign. To speak foreign.
She
would gladly cut herself on the shards
of
their broken English if that helped.
She
wanted to be far-fetched in our minds,
like
postcards of the Eiffel Tower,
the
crouching gargoyles of Notre Dame.
Or
snapping herself posed by Jim Morrison’s tomb.
Or
before Camus’ last offering, Sartre’s bones, even
the
fossilized whiskers of Victor Hugo.
She
would love no more living people.
She
would never return. Not for family, me or anyone,
Not
after three days in Louvre, two in the D’Orsay,
being
awe-struck by a thousand beatific Madonnas,
transfixed
by the gold-pink flesh of Renoir bathers.
The
truth is indestructible. History buries and we dig it up.
No
one frolics like her, matching her moods for speed
through
the Champs Elysees espresso gauntlet.
Even
without the shadowed hotel room, the accordion
with
a tremor in its keys, playing to the unlit window,
in
a stranger’s transitory arms
I
have heard nothing of her for months.
Except
for the brief violence of her telephone tongue.
The
French don’t like Americans
so
she called me.
|
|
Coupling
They were right
out in the open,
at
least, as open as a dark moonless night
and
the edge of a thick wood allows.
His
pants were down, her dress was up.
What
if children were as inquisitive as her?
What
if they were the ones who went out
to
investigate every small noise,
each
rustle, every moan?
Lucky
for juvenile sensibilities,
she
was he one who ventured
from
the house in dressing gown,
brandishing
a flashlight
like
the sword of a knight with a pure heart.
The
cold wind didn’t deter her.
The
uncertain ground wouldn’t stop her from her task.
She
shone a light on their naked bodies,
screamed
out on behalf of Jesus and the disciples
that
she was here to rid the world of Satan.
The
girl hid her face.
The
boy yelled, “Go away you old hag.”
They
were well hidden.
No
moon in the sky, trees, brush, huddled close.
His
pants were down, her dress was up.
What
if the woman in the brown cottage
was
as nosy as children?
What
if she came out of the house
disturbed
by the noise they were making?
Unfortunate
for senior sensitivities,
that
woman was the one who ventured
from
her house in dressing gown,
brandishing
a flashlight
like
a guardian of the old moral order.
Cold
wind wouldn’t hold her back.
Unsteady
footsteps didn’t deter.
She
shone a light on their naked bodies,
screamed
out on behalf of all that she had missed out on
in
the years beyond her husband’s death.
The
girl hid her face.
The
boy yelled something like
“Don’t
you realize that we’re doing this on your behalf?”
Anyway,
the sex was hot.
They
could live with her lack of appreciation. |
|
A History of
Kisses
Since
when did a kiss become a memory —
perfunctory
touch of lips —
a
quick peek on behalf of more passionate kisses
from
fifteen years before —
you
pulled back then
because
your breath demanded it
but
that didn’t stop your eyes
from
begging for another -
and
now it’s the years that need them —
they’re
reassurance packaged in a mouth —
the
ardor was crushed some time back -
I
should feel blessed that, at least,
that
the tenderness remains.
So
when you leave for work,
you
purse your lips —
you
want me on them
if
only for a moment —
it’s
an acknowledgment of our shared history —
fifteen
years
and
not a tongue in sight |