The Surrealist Takes a Shave
(For Sylvia Plath)
The blade scrapes
Reddened skin
Sharp and stiff.
It courses ‘round
The nape of my nose,
Across my cheek,
And down my neck,
Sliding the cream
Out of the way,
Over a speedbump vein,
Pinching the flesh and
Riding a wave
Of hot water.
The razor rips
A slice of epidermis
Like an axe man.
Blood sprints to my chest
Like bandits for the border.
Steam rises and flashes death
In the misty mirror.
I apply a Charmin swatch
To the wound
Then slap myself with Aqua Velva
And live.
Haunted
What is this membrane stretched
Like an amniotic sack between us
In the thin thickness of the Other?
Why can I sense you,
Your faint laughter and radiant smile,
Your parental voice- steady and strong- yet distant,
Your laboring hands, talcum powder, and Old Spice,
Yet I cannot quantify you?
Like a pin prick or an electric pulse,
A rush of gulf air
Or a hovering drizzle
You are so close
Right there,
A daffodil pushing up ground
Prenatal and burgeoning
But unattainable
Just behind the pink marmalade violet streaks of dawn
Across the morning fog
Co-mingled into the river steam
Suffused into the cumulus clouds
Melted into the twilight moment
Meshed in the midnight magic,
Omnipresent,
Encircling me,
Imbued in the wan light,
But to no avail
Five Years On
rain flecks my window,
the gray sky grows cold,
a storm foments off to the west,
rolling in like the raging tide,
and I live it again.
white sheets,
buzz, hum, beep,
translucent tube,
ashen face,
everything closing in
the way night envelopes the sun,
slowly, without fanfare.
but now
the Moment draws my dread
like a catheter and
the melancholy leeches from
my skin like bleach,
the sorrow transubstantiating
through my fingertips and toes;
my eyes flicker and focus
(do my ears detect your whisper?)
and my pores expel the toxin.
I shiver
and, like resurrection,
I am released,
inundated,
drenched,
cleansed,
free.
Two Miles to El Paso
she stares into the searing sun
squinting through barbed wire
lips cracked from water
she drank
yesterday-
longing,
yearning,
praying
for a chink in the armor
a rupture in the membrane
a hole, perhaps, or
a gap
a schism
a slit-
stomach rumbling
stabbing spine,
blood-smeared hands,
splinters,
blisters,
dried tears,
and a chance…
The Sadist
Slash my shin
Break my bones
Gouge my eyes
And leave me alone
Cut my quick
Squeeze my blood
Run like rivulets
Be done
Crack my skull
Char my skin
Stab my heart
Once again
But why not stay
And watch your will
Enjoy my woe
Indulge your thrill?
Or is the goal
Just press the bane
And not to dwell
On others’ pain?