After the Amy Steinburg Show

"I love you."
I want to reach out
into the empty space between us and
fill it with my love.
I want to bake the words with
heated passion, rasping out
"I love you."
I want to stack up
I love you I
love you I love you
build them up into
a wall so tall and so strong
that you cannot possibly
climb over to hurt me.

Watching Her Mow the Lawn (20 Sept. 2005)

is like watching a sculpture
take shape. The excess is sliced away,
revealing smooth and undulating lines.
Each hollow and hillock resembles her own
as the lean, narrow muscles bulge
to work through a tangled patch of kudzu.
A trickle--no, stream--of sweat
traces the curve of her face.
The nearly invisible fuzz on her cheek
is dewy with it.
Her moist shoulder is freckled
with grass debris. It finds every fold
in her shirt, every crease in her joints
and clings to her, relentlessly.

The First Time (20-23 January 2006)

Sex is a serious sport,
not to be undertaken lightly.
The others dive from that precipice,
thinking only of the thrill.
They will crash, inevitably,
and hurt themselves. It is an exhilarating
terror, so I want to be careful.

Anything this risky, this permanent,
obligates us to something greater
than love: commitment.
Sex changes us, mingles more
than body fluids. It is conceived
by--and exposes--love.

I step lightly, to its edge, with you.
There is nothing here to hold on to
except each other and our fright
brings us closer together.

The 78th Day of Marriage (14 January 2008)

This morning, I discovered
the back of your right ear,
mushrooming into sturdy wrinkles.
Hidden in its crevices
are four freckles.
I counted them in astonishment
as you slept.
O dreaming conquest,
my beautiful plunder,
I had thought I knew everything
about you.

How To Be Heartless (1 March 2006)

You've probably been knitting
safe little bandages to keep it warm.
Stop.
Pull all the plugs, remove the dust
covers that are keeping it warm and soft.
Instead, mummify it, protect it.
Ice is a superb preservative. Let it harden,
then swathe it in steel as smooth and cool
as a rejection.
Then you can forget it; it will sleep as if dead.
It will be safe.

To A Nephew (10 February 2003)

*Winner of the Rose Nurnberg award for poetry

I've seen the pictures of your failed birth,
your doll's body a rusty blush,
the color of dried blood.
I've stood on your grave,
a ridiculous kind of underground
fort for you to sleep in.
When I imagine you in Heaven,
sitting on Christ's lap
and surrounded by singing angels,
you are always blind and mute.
Your fetal eyes are like those
of deep-sea anglers:
existent, but invisible,
hidden behind fused spectacles of skin.
They follow your silent mouth
as it gapes open, fish-like,
your heard turning sharply from side to side.
And you resemble a guppy,
trying to swallow the angels' lullabies
which float down around you
in little flakes.