Bearded Lady

*

Point of departure:

The sun insists on illuminating breasts
through morning windows as he watches
casually from the parking lot
before stuffing lovesongs under a
hotel room door in the eleventh hour.

Curious mornings into indifferent days,
waving buen viaje as sadness drops
in his stomach like an empty glass
echoing long into the afternoon

But better sadness perhaps
than nothing at all.


*

The bearded lady
in a milk white thing
with thighs sore
from 6th floor walk-ups

burnt black beans in
mothers pot in
mothers kitchen,

the sound of city sleeping
only for a moment, exploded

by dogs forgotten
in cold and lonely yards.
(who can afford the village?)

Piaget in Jersey
lost his French accent
and gained a boulevard,
a silent tenant, a loud lord
and no fairness in between.

The bearded lady
sits on the stone steps
in her see-through white
thing and touches her face

*

I saw you around the city all day.
Across the scuzzy duck pond reading
with your sack-purse still resting across your chest,
walking down a boulevard with your head off-kilter
holding a plastic shopping bag and wearing a grey tank top,
even though I know today your shirt is orange,
you talked about your orange shirt at breakfast.

*

Here we are,
soothed by sirens
comforted by batons
squarely set in breast bones
hands on shoulders
guiding frames sideways
into vans,
careful not to bump
heads on jams

(get angry open veins
and blood let
blood let
blood let
the blood pour down
pour down
pour down

concentrate.)

*

Regard: Banana Republic

She runs her fingers through it, de-tangling the tangles gently as she goes, watching you intently

'don't touch the side of my eye
inside my thigh
like that
top hat'

be patient
station-waiting:
her head low, like so
with her eyes up
and a steaming paper cup

The trees hang heavy with
fruit, smelling fragrant in the
early morning
The bearded lady touches her face.

*

I could hear the sound only faintly
muffled by the sounds of cars
and motorbikes in the street,
children screaming in Italian.
But now and again, it quiets down
enough for me to hear their voices
full and longing
colliding with the night.

*

remember Cuba
chocolate melting in pockets
the lemons cross pollinating with the roses
making rose shaped lemons

*

Ear chin cheek
illuminated by the electric light
from the doorway

mourning the loss of gas lamps,
the bearded lady
sits on the stone steps
in her see-through white
thing and touches her face.