Poetry Suite by Leah Noble Davidson
Editor Carrie Seitzinger, Poetry, July 30th, 2013
Legs a soft white gasp, laugh your back into the crowd...
My two uncles had heart attacks in the same day
and one died. I had an uncle die today. Funny,
I could cry; I could make plans for the future, or a life without him. I
could see birds in the grey fade sky
and pretend I know something more about life.
I go to a reading
and watch the way people lean. I
buy three plastic cups of red wine
even though I hate red wine.
I tell a woman how her poetry reminds me of
color moving behind wax paper. I lean.
I tell myself everyone feels like
I do sometimes.
we can’t know each other. Won’t. and
talk of my dead uncle would make
the room uncomfortable. and just like that,
we are all icicles again.
But in a poem, I’m supposed to teach you something. Or
it’s not fun anymore. So here:
Ancient Grecians used shells as breast implants- it’s true.
Imagine your head to her heart;
imagine the ocean you could hear
from the other side of her laughing sobbing tit.
+ + +
Everyone You Know Wants to Do Terribly Drunken Things to You
and you don’t need to be told,
which is why you straddle the bar stool, legs a soft white gasp,
laugh your back into the crowd.
I pretend not to be jealous of your dress, the way it holds you,
how you finger it in casual conversation.
You little salty toy, I dare you
to have a secret
and keep it.
+ + +
our windows open and
the doors slam on their own. Every time
we crack a room, it barks
back the way it was. Sometimes
when I’m home alone;
the bedroom door will bang,
and I’ll think of you.
+ + +
(Doesn’t matter what kind of flowers-
the wind of them washes you into
whatever I’m doing, smears your smirk across
my thoughts, and then)
I’m not getting anything done.
I’m trying not to kiss you (even in pretend).
+ + +