- Home
- Jnana Hodson
Blue Rock Page 3
Blue Rock Read online
Page 3
to crop up, depending. Maybe I still do. We
harvested a part of yourself to prepare shelving
Mason jars in a marriage. We planted this
relationship with the antilock brakes applied
to crop up in crossfire. Maybe I don't deserve you.
We harvested muskmelons and blueberries
we'd prepare to sell door-to-door through apartments.
~*~
LV
You touched electric trolleys filled with
ghosts in my canoeing movie line. You
touched high tails tracking sky wires in my
cost-benefit analysis. You touched an attitude
I want to change in my suspense, for you.
You touched smoke screens and deceptions
in my playful, passionate expression. You touched
traffic parked in my silken tapestries of social skills.
~*~
LVI
My touch has the stress of irregular hours in your desire
to assume control over my feelings. My touch pursues
Buddha but encounters Shiva in your urban junkyard.
My touch frolics in your dread of losing other options.
My touch is flexible, centered, self-secure where
your graffiti inked my body forever. My touch
is compassionate, caring; not uptight or bossy
in your weaving seminars and yarn stores.
My touch is able to articulate and share deep emotions
in your body seized by lunar rhythms, even an embryo.
~*~
LVII
You tasted nothing more than what I've been willing
to extend in local politics. You tasted a divorced
white male who was married nearly ten years
like tomato sauce on its "three-day ride." You tasted
unfinished business brought home each evening. You
tasted some deep psychic wounds conveying fascinating
homemade Hollandaise insights. You tasted gravestones
arrayed like lobster pots. You tasted unforgettable
champagne in Vienna when some anonymous patron
picked up the tab. You tasted another onion ring
jinxed by your mother's triple miscarriages.
~*~
LVIII
You taste a strand of barbed wire
in my lifetime of betrayals. You taste
a white church at the end of a cornfield
in my chemistry or plumbing problem.
You taste black leather and stainless steel
links in my fear of dying alone. You taste
wealth and glamour against my presumed
poverty and ineptitude. You taste girlish
exuberance in dancing leaps over my secluded
mountain cabin. You taste a weekend
in Barcelona in my twenty lines of introduction.
~*~
LIX
At night they advised me that to find
a proper companion one must first envision her
and then go searching before dawn produces
tomatoes and green beans from her garden. At night
a unique magnetism touches my arm before dawn
a conjuncture of how many triangles? At night patterned
fern shadows cast by candles play against walls
and ceiling as you sit on my lap and we watch
a blizzard plaster the windows before dawn we enjoy
singing four-part a cappella hymns. At night I don't
want to get any older before dawn seventeen-year
cicadas sound like ratchets or even chainsaws
in the woods — chains running over sprockets
— sparrows crashing against the windshield. At night
you hint of abuses in so many of my previous lovers
before dawn I know what I have won, pain and all,
in dumping the self-centered chick with the expensive
G-string. Que lastima. At night the bad boys
have such an advantage with good girls before dawn
demands a Nerd Rescue. At night, you advise me.
~*~
LX
You promised we'd buy a thirty-two-foot
sailboat and have harbor mooring but I found
stemware filled with hearty red wine. You
promised mountain climaxes, tidal swells,
symphonic crescendos, but I found big bold
solid-color coffee mugs early in the morning.
You promised gourmet home cooking, chamber
music and theater, but I found archaic and
startling cinematic touches. You promised
sustained massage, Continental cuisine,
poetry by candlelight, foreign films, moonlit
caresses, fireside pinches, but I found rare
Georgian recordings. You promised distinctions
between Mozart and Mahler, marigolds and fresh
mint, Moliere and the Marx Brothers,
Moselle and mussels, Matisse and Modigliani,
but I found leather-bound Quaker books
printed in the sixteen and seventeen hundreds.
You promised homemade pasta, wilderness
pathways, playful and profuse passion,
preludes and fugues, profound sensuality,
and spiritual fidelity, but I found Moundbuilder
artifacts, possibly two millennia old, dug from
Ohio farms at the turn of the century. You
promised nights at the opera after an afternoon
at the ocean but I found you don't deserve me.
~*~
LXI
In my pocket is a tulip tree blossom you'd extend
to a bluebird. In my pocket an envelope
preserves a pearl and two childhood teeth you'd take
to a picnic. In my pocket I have a letter of affirmation,
knowing you'd panic at the mere thought
of having to introduce yourself to any self-assured stranger
at a cocktail party. In my pocket a strand of rope unravels
whenever you consider defining me as one of
the boys. In my pocket are crib sheets
for uncomfortable social settings where you'd concoct
unexpectedly humorous retorts. In my pocket you placed
an invitation to your neighbor daughter's wedding
where you knew I'd be your trophy alien.
~*~
LXII
My hands hardly know the soft skin
of the racist cheerleader in your returning
adolescence. My hands keep seeking to find you
at a sock hop I never attended
while you, in your exquisite beauty, so hungered
for approval from other males. My hands may be
seeking my father's blessing in your jockeying
for status position. My hands enjoy slipping under
clothing in your meteorological variations
and global navigation. My hands never forget
when the fine arts are a front
for lusting where your shorts and golfing socks
tense up toward a pantry. My hands sleep together
and move forward in this much knotted lovescape.
~*~
LXIII
You left my classmates' perceptions where
I refused to go shopping for bargains. You left
while I was drinking where I set forth
on my great detour. You left by sending
your mother to return my possessions where
I spooled into manly things. You left all the signs
of the depression where I believed a pure angel
would intersect me, but she never quite
touched. You left diverse and often contradictory
characters where I hear Mozart and Schubert.
You left a first wet, sloppy open mouth
/> broken off by my best friend's intrusion where
so much has evaded me or slipped away.
~*~
LXIV
You sound so far from a sushi raw bar
in the land where my marriage was finished.
You sound twilight exquisite in the springtide
of lilacs.
You sound too precise, concise, methodical
in the mystery of your attraction
to certain people but not others.
You sound bewildered in the your landlady's complaint
that once, "All the time, day or night,
it's always the squeaking, pounding bedsprings"
— when I was living so far away!
You sound your part so well
I rarely penetrate your mask
in my move to Bolton Hill.
You sound sorry only that I didn't break off earlier
in any genuine caring for my welfare.
~*~
LXV
You strike gongs of living silence in another
small declaration of my freedom. You strike
a period of uninterrupted concentration on your work
and skid to a crash in multiple fronts to examine. You
strike too many loose ends to even know where to begin
in my ex-wife's trousseau. You strike crying babies
in neighboring apartments in your forgotten history.
You strike four long-stemmed wine glasses in a river
that does not run backward. You strike some crucial
common interests in things I have carried too long
bound in my ingrained roles of caregiver and lifeguard.
~*~
LXVI
When swaggering air swirled to fetch us, you
misread my feelings over the past
half-dozen or so years. When swaggering air
assured we'd soon be back together,
you insisted these were loans, not gifts.
When swaggering air configured prayerful hands
laid over my heart, you acknowledged
for the first time, in past tense, we were ever
lovers. When swaggering air disclosed more secrets
than you realized, you sounded as though
breakups are all the same. When swaggering air railed
against a position you'd eventually claim
as your own, you asked about future contact.
When swaggering air raised a wall between us,
my fortunes changed dramatically.
~*~
LXVII
A Sorceress thinks the only requirement
to solo in Carnegie Hall is ownership
of a Tchaikovsky Competition gold medal.
A Hero hears a clear, powerful voice that proves true
when put to the test. A Sorceress awaits defeat
and then victory. A Freudian slip, switching
Grasshopper and Cobra. A Hero takes long walks
in the evening you never seem to comprehend.
A Sorceress keeps your signals crossed. A Hero has
a pressing agenda. A Sorceress is the worst twelve
months of my life in the echo of exultation.
~*~
LXVIII
It's a mistake for you
to writhe in the passenger
seat before your irises
blaze anger and you dart,
shamelessly mocking me
to ultimately excuse your
wreckage. It's a mistake
for you to gush on the phone
about a new lover, until
my subdued inquiry,
"So how can you use him?"
draws you off-guard into
uncommon frankness,
"Oh! In every way!"
before recognizing
my ambush. A mistake,
also, to counter: "Hey!
I don't like the sound
of your question!" It's even
a mistake for you to threaten
you'll summon body pickers
to the graveyard. More a
mistake for me to ask little
or nothing in return, veiling
my reason for relocating
to Baltimore. It's a big mistake
for you to claim the telephone's
just disconnected so you can sleep
uninterrupted, rather than your
cover-up for unspeakable
betrayals. A much bigger mistake
for me to consider you my lifetime
soul mate when it seems I've been
little more than your bailout option.
~*~
LXIX
When it rains gold hoop earrings, I keep
returning to adolescence, to seek you
in a sock hop I never attended. When it
rains calculations the wild geese know,
I reach into nettles. My fingers and wrists
sting. When it rains upon my parents'
denominational traditions, we sleep as we do,
alive with points of departure. When it rains
on a muddy reservoir, you, slender lover,
remain a cipher, a case of perhaps, maybe,
what if. When it rains glances during outdoor
concerts, the past holds our future. When it
rains the skills to negotiate social intricacies,
this is not the first time you have been here.
~*~
LXX
With this ring of bells on your
ankles, I would listen for one sounding
slightly out of key that reveals
everything. With this ring of shadowy
caverns beneath my dwelling-place,
I would keep blaming myself when things
weren't working out between us. With
this ring of gaudy wallpaper about
to peel away, exposing skeletons and
gallstones, I would rest my chin atop
your head. With this ring of thunderclouds
arrayed like piles of gunpowder, I
would answer the delirious vehemence
Lilac Girl set ablaze. With this ring
of blonde pubic hair, I would reckon
each day. With this ring around the lake,
I would fly north, into birch pollen.
~*~
LXXI
You feign one-sided involvement in my
scintillating falling. Wafting snow
afternoon abed with one still yearning
for another. You bring the bag
of what had been our engagement
to my seven-to-seven, seven-day-a-week
job engulfment slipping away
from those who would accept
such prolonged unanticipated switcheroos
strumming a chord swelling
between my legs. Your overtures keep
exploding crickets in thistle.
~*~
LXXII
I rely on misleading statements.
You are the Garden State Parkway.
I have come to regret my decision
from which locale? You introduced
prolonged times of celibacy in a tearful
morning phone call to Brooklyn. I am
a painful contortion trusting words
you so convincingly uttered until Art Nouveau
meets American Comix. I am the debris
of our civil war. You are its lazy
reptilian torpor. I so much wanted
to hear your three-part radio broadcast.
~*~
LXXIII
Please don't harbor my Rapunzel
in her wasp flight. You'll notice
curious warts on the leaves. Please
don't shock me into recognizing
affairs I could have had while
still married. Please don't reject
my desire as "too itc
hy." Animal
bones — even cow skulls — served
her Georgia O'Keeffe period. Please
don't act so prophetic. I know nothing
of starry matters. Please don't let
the sex between us die. We vowed
we'd never resemble our parents.
Please tell me you're sorry.
~*~
LXXIV
Facing a turbine of resolution
and conjecture that impels
my hereditary current, I finger
your beguiling flaxen smile.
Facing the scintilla of glimmering
water, I finger a thermometer
recording daily temperature
extremes. Facing an unbridled
wind, I finger a cup size matching
two figures. Facing a setup
for disappointment, I finger
the shadows of an abandoned
television tower. Facing the soft skin
of a racist cheerleader, I finger
old wasp nests in a telephone
circuit box. Facing the awkward
adolescence of our prom night,
I finger the clinical application
of your diaphragm or my condom.
~*~
LXXV
Your face has required
an appropriate opposition
so close to my origin.
Your face flickered
with laughter now rippling
from your married daughter.
Your face admired a twinning
shadow in my own soul, missing
parts more than innate loveliness.
Your face is backed by florid
wallpaper in our grandparents'
garish farmhouse parlor.
~*~
LXXVI
Come here, to the bonds ringing a couple
where I so resemble my Tar Heel ancestry.
Come here, to trust, foolishly, in fidelity
where I beg for her mercy.
Come here, to half of my life since adolescence
where I labored under false expectations.
Come here, to that confirmation I had assumed
only a gentlewoman could elaborate
where bluntness has been my manner.
Come here, to what I could share with my beloved
where an imagined locale is restored
to intricate dreaming.
Come here, to fields of desolation or entombed rage
where I have pursued the hummingbird.
~*~
LXXVII
By the water, there is psychic space, indeed.
By the water, you are attracted to certain people,
but not others.
By the water, I have lacked an intimate companion.
By the water, I could not admit until recently
my need a woman who could can
tomatoes and peppers.
By the water, nothing could soothe nothing.
By the water, fervent statements have been so difficult.
By the water, take pity on me, love!
~*~
LXXVIII
The shark has not explained why this has to happen.
The goat should know better.
The crow has a safe deposit box.
The grasshopper owns too many shares to be disinterested.
The bullfrog cannot afford to be without their policies.
The salamander is running for sheriff.
The jellyfish sounds like applause.
The rabbit invited Pueblo Indians to come for dinner.
The mockingbird detects a note of envy.
The cicada reaches into realms of imagination.
The turtle comes full circle.
The crocodile is never unblemished.
The shark has no need to be clever.
The goat explores the Mystery.