A STAR IS SOMEWHAT BORN
At eight I wanted to be Tallulah
Bankhead. With my high voice, I couldn’t sound
like her—but I did call everyone dah-ling,
even my brother who smirked and said Huh?
I secretly dressed in mom’s formal gown.
She caught me and said that Jesus the King
would be angry. By nine I had moved on
to Bette Davis and Merle Oberon.
DULCET TONES AND APE BURP
I’m on the lanai reading
War And Peace. You’re in the garage
reading your name written in pollen
on our Mustang. We have war
sometimes. I’m always right.
Why is that? Do I have that wrong?
And we have peace sometimes.
It feels like a venus flytrap
almost ready to close
around a bug. After many years,
we still have much in common.
We jump into the same underpants
of time and chafe. We kiss, burp,
and nervous dandelions stab us
with yellow knives. Someday
death will open our refrigerator.
Probably hungry. It’s rude
to just walk right in.
But it’s death. We know it
can lick any lock until it melts.
COUNTDOWN
Some island nations
write their wills. Pockets
of methane escape
in the Arctic. Chunks of
Antarctica drift away.
We make plans.
Yeah, plans,
that’s funny.
HOMEMADE
Rick Cornhart makes tea cups,
each a beauty. If someone
wants to buy one, Rick will sell it
only if the buyer promises
never to drink from it.
Would you drink from a painting?
How do you pour a sculpture?
I buy one for twenty bucks.
On a winter day, I need a cup of tea.
I drink from Rick’s tea cup.
The next morning I wake up
as an orchid, beautiful at last.
Yet in my finest petal,
I hear Rick Cornhart weep.
© Ann Privateer: image
BOARDS AND PRAYERS
At the lumberyard, Lenny
tells customers where
to find things and rings them up.
After a long day, he prays,
doesn’t believe in God,
sees no contradiction.
Prayers are fishing. Cast your line
and see what happens. Before
falling asleep he clicks the Pez
Dispenser of dreams.
He may get a cherry tonight.
Morning. He sees that the sky
is a dead gray hand
suddenly reanimated.