Erica Bernheim
To you, the hard porn king about to start
a series of shots beneath the ankle,
the foot more important than your cock:
wait for it. Some one will come.
Horrible guitar chords, Esteban
with his exciting news, eponymous
the plumber, extreme the yank
and thrust of his wrenches into
the sinkhole. Beloved are his tangents.
Love me, the way teeth are known
not to take care of themselves. We
have them like friends we ignore long
enough to make them go. The body,
prone, steamy, the mise-en-scene.
The first step is meeting the surgeon.
The last thing anyone does is clean
the floor. You ask about keeping
strong. You slip the keyhole matte
onto the front of the camera. The
extraordinary stretch makes it solid.
It makes the feet hidden. Don’t call
it anything prettier than what it is.
Your hands are what hold the fists out.
Your mouth wants its words back in.
The Problem with Night Stories
To remember teenagers sneaking into moneyed places
is to believe the night capable of blooming around you,
obscene with its extra pistils, magicians saying If you act
like something you become it. Like you, only clockwise,
the fable disappears into the water without ripple,
as though some clocks might still, would lower
their faces against the wind and pass me. As though
you lived here, I will iron everything harder, as though
I knew how iron can be fashioned, soldered to locks
unopened, cautioned against fire, against wet snow,
bringing you to the older brother’s armchair, spider legs
splayed for the benefit of this darkening hearth. I trust
we will both be on our worst behavior, our well-being
invisible in the loyal daytime, a rehearsal for the evening’s
ticker-tape of betrayals. She is the middle girl, an odd man
out of time, happy for me, crossing the international
date line. They say Madrid is the highest capital
in Europe, when for me it’s always meant your car.
Let me go out of me, genius of limbless locomotion,
if you’ve not got enough proof, then it cannot be proven.
What is important is that everyone gets out alive.
