yes, that movie was just
the absolute
worst! except for the parts
when it was the best.
if I could edit out
the bad parts,
the parts that made me cry
and rage and storm,
I’d buy tickets
again and again.
I’d buy the DVD.
(it was better than CATS, better
than E.T.!)
if I didn’t remember
the good parts, I’d think
I was crazy for not walking out
of the theater
within the first
five minutes.
what do you do
with a trainwreck
like that?
people who don’t care that much
about food
don’t know what it feels like.
to look forward so sweetly
to a certain dish
all day and then to be able to
satisfy that craving
is deeply enjoyable.
sometimes other things
get sacrificed for that goal –
like sleep, or having a waistline –
but it is often
worth it. that dinner I
woke up wanting, that crunchy,
buttery garlic bread, that
toothsome pasta dish, that
pastrami on rye, that tooth-achingly sweet,
hot molten lava cake, whatever it is,
lay it on me, but only after
I’ve thoroughly savored that sweet
anticipation.
the only other thing that comes close
is when love is finally requited
after months of waiting.
but those moments
are few and far between. in the
meantime… you gonna finish that?
there’s a solitary bee
who likes to visit me
sometimes. a big fat buzzy
bumble of a bee who looks
like he shouldn’t be
alone, he looks like he’s lost
his hive and his friends and
I wonder where he lives, where
he goes and what he does
when he’s not stopping by
to check out my terrace
and drive my cats
crazy with his slow drone
and deliberate hovering.
I also can’t help but wonder
why he even comes here
to my high aerie.
I have no flowers for him to pollinate,
no plant life beyond
my perennial herbs that I
sometimes use
for cooking. so what’s
in it for him
up here? is he just
fond of me?
is he saying “what’s
up lady, how
have you been?” is he
telling the good ol’ drones
back at the hive about these
little trips –
are they all laughing
at how I don’t wake up
until noon if I can help it –
or could he perhaps
love me in his clumsy,
bumbling way?
maybe one day I’ll learn
the true rationale
behind his visits.
until then I
merely smile and say,
“hello big bee,
how nice to see you
again.”
excuse me, sir, but
for the umpteenth time,
could you please move over?
every single time
I get out of bed – which I do
with truly ridiculous frequency –
you immediately rush
to occupy my side. it’s
nice, I guess, that you’re keeping
my spot warm for me, but
you’re always reluctant to leave it
when I return in five minutes –
having done something
probably unnecessary like
smoke a cigarette while
tweeting a bunch of nonsense
or messaging someone –
and I’m getting pretty tired
of asking you
to move. and then
half the time
you insist on cuddling.
it was cute at first, but
you seem to feel compelled
to scratch me
multiple times
before positioning yourself,
and then you start biting
whatever part of my flesh
is in front of your face.
if I’ve told you once,
I’ve told you a hundred times:
no biting! or your cuddling
privileges will be revoked.
also you’re overdue for a
claw clipping. these deficiencies
must be corrected
before any further intimacy
will be awarded. finally,
your breath reeks
of cat food.
I got on the wrong train
twice today, accidentally express
and was forced to watch
helplessly as I was carried
way beyond
my intended stop. in a hurry,
not thinking, I screwed
myself again and again.
even as I mentally berated
myself for betraying
my own best interests,
I couldn’t help but notice
that going too far
in the right direction
is better than not moving
at all.
those crackers we scattered
the last time you were here
don’t seem to be attracting
any birds. I heard some singing
today but somehow they managed
to resist the allure of this
Italian herb spelt goodness.
or not so much, as all the humans
upon whom I tried to force them
have not been particularly interested
either. either the birds
have much better taste
than we anticipated, or
the word hasn’t gotten out yet
about the bonanza of free food
on my terrace. now it’s rained
and I’m left with a big soggy mess
to clean up.
oh, well. it was worth
a try. hopefully this experiment
between us won’t also
end up being unfit
even for the birds.
Venetian glass-sellers:
the blond boy, crewcut and Germanically
ruddy, bulbous-eyed,
leaning back in his chair,
tilting his head at you,
the glass girl, fifteen or less,
long brown limbs
loosely arranged like straight-
blown rods in a vase,
your almost stylish red-brown hair
swinging downward as you look into
your red-and-blue lap,
though his washed bottle
ones are fixed on you
unremittingly, as if bending
the force of a will upon you,
and I sense some strange coercion there,
some resignation on your part,
unwilling forgiveness –
though what this sixteen-year-old
cocky one could have done is beyond me,
unless it’s having been blown wrong –
and as you stand up
he takes hold of your brown
grasshopper arm, pulling,
and you just stand there
for the minute it takes me
to walk around the side of the building
to where I can look back
through the arch and continue spying,
your sad and disbelieving
dark-amber head
tilted as if to say don’t look at me that way,
and then I witness
the slow dissolution of your resistance,
(that weakened ache in the bone
that I know so intimately)
sinking forward and down to
an elbowy, reserved embrace
that nevertheless goes on for
quite a while – I look
back fully five minutes later
and you are still frozen
in that cold position
you are fused, the dark glass of your hair
flowing into the glazed
white of his shirt.
R. Brookes McKenzie 