ExquisiteVictorian Reunion Corpses
It’s been raining for days
drizzle it like virgin olive oil over the leaves
but under every
careful footstep stepping
it’s the looking over his shoulder that
brings him the last sausage
burns half way up the hill
just above the window of our deep desire.
In the heebie-jeebie dust of a worn remark
fuzz green fuzzy head
listen to me listen to me you freak
it will work better after a blueberry breakfast but
w/o the champagne George wanted.
He forges $100 bills in the basement
the smell permeates
into the gaping mouth of her mother.
My feet change colours
tuesday you pass the plate of
remorse while I eat chicken
and dumplings bobbed in hot oil
the aroma grasping memory and teasing
a flare of nostrils hover over apples, smell jasmine
because the coffee was cold and the dog
limped into the oblivious screen.
Twisted in the butter dish
speculates of ocean life
illegally in the way of stones
on a highway curving into sunset
eye blinded by hot oil spitting
off the heat before it burned or
turned into grist for Ashberry-
inspired the copy-cat murders, blood
seeping across the Mid-West.
She was obsessed with painting
everything grey under my aging hairline
reminds me of a hospital ward
so many went grey overnight in shock
from seeing one can of hair spray
under her skirt, where small
creatures of mourning and
mercy and grace to all
sinners even the donkey braying.
I carry the tune around
like haggis postcards in the
morning. In the shadow of the
said “Give me your hip,
let me, no, insist that I
turn around, spin the dial and
lift one foot and put it down.”
Blueberry pancakes are burning,
we fell into it—
for one minute of bliss
the constable with the huge
pectorals, one finger on the
trigger, then all hell broke loose.
I screamed, “Don’t touch it
or I’ll sick that Jesus donkey on you!”
George’s face looks like a crumpled
sheet, not the way mother used to fold them,
wrinkled from within
for pears and peaches, apples
and plums, resplendent in the
wooden bowl and china plates painted
red splattered the walk, maples
dropping stones on puddles.
George Bowering, Kim Clark, Linda Crosfield, Rhonda Ganz, Pat Smekal, Leslie McBain, Paul Nelson, Lenora Smalley.