PLEXI (VCMFA PACKET 2) (ROUGH)

Plexi


After a lover leaves, a woman may talk
to her cats with more play
as if she’d left them for days. She learns
how to wad scrap paper just right for toss,
for the smaller cat to launch
her grace into the air, front paws
like human hands, catcher’s mitt and bat.
It might be a month before the cat
realizes the woman left tosses as well as her lover.

More bags are brought into the house.
Nothing seems to ever leave. The cats
sniff them down. A woman sniffs
a left-behind blazer, for scent of passion --
the perfume. Not the lover. If there were no cats,
if she’d lost custody, she’d crack the front door,
invite stray on to her couch -- the cat bold
enough to pretend she lives with her.
If there were no stray cat,
she may drink more milk hours into dawn,
from a glass from her childhood, thick enough
to survive decades of careless pour,
reckless stomp on plexi glass cover on counter.

If there were no plexi glass cover
on counter, a collage of stains might stay:
celery stalks’ juice dripping from elaborate threads
that hold the crunch, that made her cringe
as her lover chomped down. Chewed. Chomped.
The collage might be sweet tea stains,
or periodic au jus, or lemony crust of salt.
And if she’d stopped craving sour
before her lover left, would a craving
like that matter just enough to keep her?
To bring it all back?
The craving. Her lover? If there were no sour,

like lemon, or anger, would she let arguments
over misplaced books or bills or a blouse,
or mismatched socks, always her lover’s,
make a cringe inch to her face until laugh lines
are thickened to stretch for stress? If she
had no laugh lines, would that make her an actor,
or a valet, or a lady’s lady? Would a smile suffice?
If a smile sufficed, would that melt the ice?

If the ice-maker broke down, when her lover left,
would she think she didn’t deserve drinks on the rocks?
Would she miss cracks she used the quart measuring cup
for all her casserole dishes,
for the steeping of her tea,
for leftovers of soup, stew, or pasta strewn from a boil?

If she missed the orange-red pekoe blend,
was it, the sight -- or taste --
the way a slow pour makes ice in a glass crackle?
She recalls her lover the opposite.
No more than two pieces, no caffeine,
No sugar, please. Sarcasm to the please,
did it make any difference the sugar
came in packets, its patent Splenda --
as if a word brings an end to her patience,
makes her laugh for no reason?

And if she lost all patience,
would she throw up her arms,
hiss around the bedroom corner, unaware her lover
could hear an under breath whisper,
and she didn’t even lip sync?
Would the plexi glass over the sink countertop
ever be transparent, clear again?

Revision of poem formerly Dyed Hard - Packet 1 - VCMFA

There, I Said It

Flat on my back, arms
over my head,
numb to needles in leg,
aroused

at first, a memory of not
needing to fuck myself,

as
I could have you having me
anytime at all.

The first
fuck.
back against
portable fridge,
small in sense of my

five-one petite,
in flats --

skittish
at saying the word,
skittier over doing it,

horny enough
to wake you,

snatch

your angry voice
like the mythical
cat that inhales a sleeper's
soul before you gasp.

Melody Berning January 2006

Red Neck

“A kiss has nothing to do with sex.” – From the poem, “Bulimia,” in Queen For a Day: Selected and New Poems (Pitt Poetry Series) by Denise Duhamel.

Red Neck

I heard a kiss has nothing to do with sex.
I couldn’t believe my ears,
Not that I do that much, as I stretch my neck

To hear your sweet nothings, lip syncing neck
To neck. A grip under your chin, a tear
Surprises me, a periodic reality check

Incumbent on a sweet vicious delicious ache,
First shock of fine hair between teeth, up for air,
Up for hips. A fan of hands, soothing thigh aches --

Promises to visit the gym. Exercise eases the cheeks,
Of face and ass. I’m surprised I’ve tangled your hair,
Not so shocked, later, when a bleeding tear stretched

You open. I gasp, “How many fingers?” Shriek
A whisper when we’re scared, liner combed out where
We couldn’t imagine we’d bear. Narcissistic, do I check

On you -- or, me? I begin to check out, next
I know, you’re tapping my cheeks, fear
At my passing out. I open my eyes, hear, “Hey, sex-

Y! “ I’ve come to know when I reach my height, check
-ers and dots sprinkle my eyes, and where
I’m most excited to do, see, be done, your red red neck.

Mel

Cold Period

Cold Period


I have a cold. I have a period.
Elle’s pissed I came back from my two-week
Residency tired, distant, odd.

I’d heard affairs were common, too weak
To roam to rumor, though I admit pretty girls
At the podium, on a forum or a squeak

Down a dorm hall, lead me to their urls.
When I got home, I started to cough, ah choo!
Back kissed. My legs in a Buddhist curl,

I catch my back before I reveal who
It was who might undo me. My nipples hard,
Till that moment I didn’t have a clue.

I’m a basket case. I make shitting hard.
I blame this on menopause. Elle says I’m thick-
Headed; I should clean the house, rake the yard.

Last night’s soda reminds me metallic tabs click,
Then crunch, a thousand geyser fizzes
Releasing sparkle neon dots. Kinda dizzy, slick

From considering an affair, one of the girls a Mrs.,
Closer to my age than even Elle –
She can’t say I was after younger “chippies.”

Nothing happened. There’s nothing to tell.
I might chew on the scenery, melt to my knees
Till my hips hurt. “I’m so tired, Elle,”

I lied. I leaned back to the air, a little dizzy,
Then I swear, a spirit caressed its tilt. “Please,”
I said, wanting Elle. Then, I called her Lizzie.

Flavor - Sestina Exercise

Flavor

Spoonful on my shirt, surprised enough you ask, “Mel, a shower,
Now?” I didn’t have the heart to mention the soup,
It’s heat, it’s veggies, or spices that shocked my tongue.
I bit down hard, not realizing cut to walls of mouth, as if I forgot
Which sensation belonged to a surface, as if I fell into a crack.
Was it my lip, my tongue, or the inside of my cheek

I bit? Tremor gave rise to my chest, twice, a tear down my cheek.
I practiced discretion, bowl set down softly, a hot shower
On the edge of scald. I forgot I left a crack
In the door, missing the spices, tomato-strewn noodles, soup
Not getting a chance to roll down my throat, like I forgot
How to swallow, how to miss my teeth with spoon, tongue

In the way, a bite meant for flavor, cut my tongue.
I let steam and sweat of shower and fear hit my cheek.
I tried to blink fast, a trick I learned to dry tears, then I forgot
Why I got scared, hadn’t even stepped out of the shower,
When I felt my face droop on the right, mouth like soup
That sat so long it chilled. I could’ve sworn a crack

Lined my face, eye to chin. I had to be calm, not crack
Up when I went to tell Elle I can’t move my tongue;
Confessing it wasn’t lack of appetite, but sip – soup
Incapable of falling from spoon to mouth, my cheek
Red from embarrassment, from concern, and shower;
Elle saying, “You enjoyed your shower so much, you forgot

You left your soup.” Then, she stopped, forgot
How she was teasing me. I saw a shudder, a voice crack.
I picked up the phone. Dialed my doc; remembered the shower.
It didn’t bother me I was out of order, as long as tongue
Worked long enough to tell doc, “Can’t blink. Can’t feel my cheek
On my right side.” Hanging up, I longed for the soup

I made, in that slap-dash-pinch of a way my soup
Is never the same. I’m calm enough to forget I ever forgot
Anything, fifty years of things, so absent-minded, I’m chic;
Giving me a rep for speaking dyslexic, codes to crack,
Twenty years of listeners reaching language on my tongue,
An audience, a nod of recognition, a shower

To me, when at last my cheek is subtle, and I enjoy hot soup,
With spices, broth as shower – no, a stream clearing why I forgot;
Not mad, or a crack-up, but flavoring my tongue.

2006 Copyright Melody Berning. Vermont College