From
the Closet
Tiny grey
moths spangle the dark
as I lift the hangers down.
There are mouths in my skirts
beyond repair. Your jackets
swarm in ruined herringbone.
We knew, but we looked away.
We have nothing left to put on.
The shops
are full, and all on sale.
You think new clothes can make us
young. History says you're wrong.
Yet open the door and step outside.
See how beautiful the patterns are.
No wonder the ancients gave them
names: Hunter, Balance, Lyre, Swan.
When
the Birds Sing
At dawn,
before their wings can be told
from leaves, when light is still
a streak, like flying.
On dim
days when all the fields go
veiled, and any named thing might be
something else.
Late, when
a woman can no longer
take back what she has told
her man, they sing, and
she is
alone, she thinks, in the barrens
of her own heart, and yet she knows
the birds are there.
Dinner
with Yun
Between
us pasta cools, red as luck.
Your words cut the hungry air.
Yun, truth is the sweetest knife.
Let us never lie to one another.
Fry our tongues before we come to this!
Here, have
a morsel dredged in crumb,
sauteed to a delicious gold. Have
the hors d'oeuvres of our hopeful marriages,
the men on our answering machines.
Take this wine.
The world
through its thin glass rim can sing
if you rub it with a wet finger.
The
Deceptive Cadence
You make
such lovely food, your mother says,
inspecting the peanut dip.
Such attractive
people, your mother says
after the guests have gone.
And who
was the young man with the beard?
Oh yes, the singer. Charming.
After the
walk among the live oaks, dripping
moss like dancer's tulle,
she pronounces
herself enchanted by the south,
by you, and this time
you know
she has come around. Feeling warm,
you turn the page.
Copyright © 2000 Lola Haskins
