Unlike Anne Sexton’s action figures
Our roaches are tiny ,golden brown
But they scuttle all over the kitchen
Just like hers and those of a Randall.
It would take a woman to terminate
The crawling, where our hunger lay.
She brings an innocent cherub child
To insert poison in home’s crevices.
(Taking off on Anne Sexton’s poem Cockroach and a similar one by Randall Mann)
All our life we thought we were some body else
Not a history’s man, a doctor of letters from far .
We dissembled a child who cried out laughing
Fancying ourselves as a keeper of state secrets.
We therefore had to keep up several pretenses.
It was tiring to pretend you were someone else.
Now we know we are someone else in the dark
Back in the green room for donning a new role
Where we no more need to dissemble or fidget
Wearing rusted masks that do not fit our faces.
Deceptive about some rainy days.
We keep our happiness for them.
Dice is cast all our time with eyes
Blind to probabilities and method.
An occasional episode is a crumb
For comic relief , as we scramble.
(Taking off on Thomas Hardy’s poem “Hap” and his famous quote from a novel “happiness is an occasional episode in the general drama of pain”)
Like wind that touched the tree
Called it its own now I call Rilke
My putative possession at night.
Now I find Rilke gone like wind
Like God who is inside us afraid,
Yet touches all things putatively.
Here we do with a translation,
The poet making it all happen,
From nothing ,only empty air
But the air is nothing but life,
Life at its breath and happen,
A translation without original.
Object is no love but wind.
You get windy like a door
Banging shut for nothing
Short of love expressions.
Words fall somewhat short
All for sounds to take over
In crucial moments of love
Like death that is a sound.
Death is an act of love said
Without sound, just a poof.
Her visitors map her ripe body
Against the fullness of her life
Bursting in her riverine cheeks
Like apple squirting with juice.
Woman, live an apple ripeness
As long as apple’s season lasts.