Poetry Issue 2

   Issue#2: Jan - Mar 2003

Mabi P. David


      Often I love her as
      she loves me: a study, here
      is how much one can
      here's when the other

      rally of affections,
      unequal like keeping
      watch, attention to the heave
      before the stroke. How we love

      the fiction of the girls
      with the lamps, Lydia taking
      after the half that spends
      the day doing, tending
      to the visible, movement
      resisting the progress
      of patience, onward as

      if to say, blessed be the narrative!
      (while the rest
      store up oil, an alert
      huddle around the jar, measuring
      the transparent flow into hard
      clay mouths, such useless
      providence, in their minds).

      Summer mid-afternoon. Something's wrong
      with the ceiling fan. In-between
      clothes hung-dry and sundown. Side by side
      at the foot of the stairs, bored bronze gods.
      Somewhere, the faint caw of a macaw.

      Lydia decides to shave my legs to move time forward. She stretches
      my legs out on her thighs.

      Lukewarm basin of soapy water,
      elbow on my ankles like strap,
      her self-possession,
      and the razor.

      It is never the stroke.