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Self-Portrait
as the Golden Head at Jardin de Luxembourg
The corrupt incorrigible with heavy bags swing,
prone to kisses from boys in black shirts
and horn-rimmed glasses, through the garden,
some in packs, some alone with their tobacco,
dying for another glass of wine or day’s first,
while bodiless Head stares golden from its shackle
above a rut of dirt. Minus torso, heart’s tender
lacks a hiding place, so moves beyond the usual
clenched fist or apple core – what we remember
the heart to be – and spills in every direction,
as shadows spill across a gazing pool and rising
immaculate Head watches lidless, affection
for its lack darkening path that leads
down rows and rows of trunkless trees.
Giantess
and the Fountain of the Giants
*
Dear John, our recipe’s fallen among
the
flour and egg. The measurements
miss their original number and fervor,
a langue Franca rolled in raw batter.
As
a result, we grew gigantic. Living
makes manifest otherwise intangible
receipts into squab, a mother sauce.
Into
small pots: egg cracked
over a bowl. We should all know: I
came folded in, folded in. The hands
that
burned on the cookery also undid
the door-latch, fly on a pair of pants
till more was made and enough was
not
enough. I grew tall, reaped nests
from the top branches cradling spit
and wood – whole systems in which
I
play no part. How humiliating. Soon
I snapped each and every bird between
thumb and forefinger, eating to keep
cloud-steady,
ingredients below yet
to be combined, the potential chemistry
an
undiscovered country.
*
Dear Lesley, the gardens here function
as prelude to the stone monstrosity
they call a fountain and the water is
nothing but a tearstain on the cheek
of this decrepit continent. Holding
up the world can be tiring. If you feel
you must, you must. You say you’ve
grown larger due to overeating, just
hyperbole. Truly we are the smallest
creatures in the universe. This is what
I feel lounging safely in Italy –
my own country a giant’s forehead
pulsing with the rainwater we’ve come
to call ocean. Those three ships, one
for each state of mind, sail from crown
to brow. And you thought it took ages
to reach paradise! The move was small
as a drop of spray blurring our vision
for a moment then melting back into
the already present river that pours
through us its many gallons per year.
©
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