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Literature Text
The Soap in Leopold\'s Pocket
That soap in Leopold\'s pocket
slides back and forth across his thigh
whispering as he walks
unless he keeps his hand there
and presses the soap to silence
You always remember
while we are getting dressed for the opera
in the short span of dryness
between shower and sweat
when I am unable to do anything
about it
He has a morbid fear
that if he lets the soap slide
against his thigh too long
it might work up a lather in his pocket
and he wouldn\'t notice
until someone pointed it out to him
Still, he thought, it might not be that bad
I smell you inside the car
the subtle suggestion of fruit and cream
We read the passing land
the even meter of streets
punctuated by corner lights at regular intervals
The rest is washed away
leaving spaces for other senses to fill in
Darkness implies by erasing
Clean the pants, skin too
might feel nice on a long walk hot day
His arm tires easily
and he knows he will need it eventually
to shake hands, open doors
shake his thing a ling a ling
but nothing for it now
couldn\'t afford a lather
With your back turned amongst the crowd
you might be any other opera goer
in black, a low cut back
the ripples of your spine
in uneven contrast
with the regularity of your pearls
It was not quite as heavy as a stone of similar size
but carried with it a lightness
that he associated with cleanliness
and it helped explain why
after a bath he always felt lighter
as though something had been removed
In the middle of her aria
I finally have your answer
so prickly it makes me sweat
but I hold my tongue
because I do not like the crease between your eyes
when you frown at me for interrupting
While her voice wavers high above our heads
I try and perfect the phrasing
Finally
stepping heavily from the carriage
he slipped the soap surreptisiously
from his hip to his kerchief pocket
and felt much keener for the changing
The brick against his breast
pressing down upon his heart
Security: it would not fly away
That soap in Leopold\'s pocket
slides back and forth across his thigh
whispering as he walks
unless he keeps his hand there
and presses the soap to silence
You always remember
while we are getting dressed for the opera
in the short span of dryness
between shower and sweat
when I am unable to do anything
about it
He has a morbid fear
that if he lets the soap slide
against his thigh too long
it might work up a lather in his pocket
and he wouldn\'t notice
until someone pointed it out to him
Still, he thought, it might not be that bad
I smell you inside the car
the subtle suggestion of fruit and cream
We read the passing land
the even meter of streets
punctuated by corner lights at regular intervals
The rest is washed away
leaving spaces for other senses to fill in
Darkness implies by erasing
Clean the pants, skin too
might feel nice on a long walk hot day
His arm tires easily
and he knows he will need it eventually
to shake hands, open doors
shake his thing a ling a ling
but nothing for it now
couldn\'t afford a lather
With your back turned amongst the crowd
you might be any other opera goer
in black, a low cut back
the ripples of your spine
in uneven contrast
with the regularity of your pearls
It was not quite as heavy as a stone of similar size
but carried with it a lightness
that he associated with cleanliness
and it helped explain why
after a bath he always felt lighter
as though something had been removed
In the middle of her aria
I finally have your answer
so prickly it makes me sweat
but I hold my tongue
because I do not like the crease between your eyes
when you frown at me for interrupting
While her voice wavers high above our heads
I try and perfect the phrasing
Finally
stepping heavily from the carriage
he slipped the soap surreptisiously
from his hip to his kerchief pocket
and felt much keener for the changing
The brick against his breast
pressing down upon his heart
Security: it would not fly away
Literature
Mayfly
-
When we were mayflies our wings were
worn from wire screens, but the tentative
beats of your belly chimed like iron.
And it occurred to me that through
the breeze of burning leaves our eyes
were open to wasps and weeds.
-
Literature
What Was Left of Joan Marie
-
Her lashes cracked and barked like thunder,
but it was a mild summer -
a mild slumber
on her door step.
Her mouth slipped under stones
to dining rooms and
dinner parties but
her breath was raw and baited-
So she waited
by the back door.
-
Literature
You Underneath
You
underneath,
brushing the willow,
swallow many branches, while
brushing the willow
underneath
you.
Silence,
they hear the
scratch, the bark
at the back of your throat.
Scratch the bark,
they hear the
silence.
You
underneath
brushing the willow,
silence!
They hear the
scratch, the bark
at the back of your throat;
scratch the bark
they hear the
silence,
brushing the willow
underneath
you.
Inspired by the fascinating and debilitating `pantopicon not to be confused with panopticon (yeah, I read that, but I'm still working my way through your thesis), as the two are syntactically similar but theoretically antithetical. You figure it out. I can't.
© 2003 - 2024 epimetheus
Comments4
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I love the back and forth of the poem; it seems so natural. Word flow and imagery also good, though you're probably sick of hearing that. Afraid I'm useless on this one.
~amy
~amy