out
of
it
p a g e f i v e
copyright1999-2001, Christine Hamm
Amorous Morsels
Come in my mouth,
He said
(my heart like a starling beating against a window)
His face beneath me
I became liquid
gave birth to a new universe
hot milk poured from me
I saw a river behind eyes rolled back in my head
A kiss so deep I slaver
my skin loosens and peels back
like the skin
of a well-cooked pheasant.
I am boiled
I am a boiled bird,
boiled meat, flesh
loosening and floating away in the bubbling water
the boiling water
of your palms on my hips
the boiling heat of your mouth drinking me
deeply, drinking
and me, floating away.
A Promise
Some
Thing warm
is overflowing my cupped hands:
animal, vegetable, or
vegetable oil.
The weather is foul.
It spits in my face.
Domestic fowl, it is said, dream
almost continually of long sea
voyages. Flight is involved in these. I see
a black mountain, backlit. Purple clouds boil at the peak.
Lightening makes the usual lightening forms.
Felix the page snaps on the table lamp and all is revealed as a pathetic backdrop.
Alarum. Exit stage left.
This armor is much too heavy and sometimes, lacks poise.
The fog gets caught up in its own dilemmas, and often, lacks concentration. The approaching headlights make one want to be a deer, caught
in the approaching headlights.
Applause. Exit stage right.
We return in velvet capes
and bow down on one knee,
although the clapping
in the gymnasium seems less than enthusiastic. Perhaps the mandatory lilac
gloves are responsible, although one could hope
for a little more politesse
from such a gaggle of hatted
librarians.
Spring
(again) and as usual it hurts...
Flowers
like the mouths of dangerous children.
The wind is cold and too tired
of itself to be bitter. The stench
of drowning earthworms fills wet streets. Hands
and feet and foreheads are white and
stupid with cold and wet and mud.
Inside the hospital
a white dwarf
(the dying
woman)
stretches up from her pillow
to whisper
stories about
making and selling
paper flowers
"when I was a goil."
Tiny Indian girls flow
out of the thunderbird.
Lime and teal
satinslashpolyester frocks foaming
at the sleeves and hems with plastic lace.
They are made up like movie
stars, Egyptian eyed.
Into the one-hour photo studio
with the cracked pane,
they flower
sidestepping the cloud reflecting puddles
not even giggling,
holding their breaths, lifting
shiny shoes
like dainty deer hooves,
their ankle socks
flashing
like
the breath of
stars.