Four

D S Hendler

"America"


I write these lines, really, not
for the love I hope they'll bring me, I
already have the measure of that
(like whiskey rations on maritime breaks
and cheers) should be alloted a man
like me. But to connect that wistful
longing of the American Eye, slightly
closed against the cold harbor winds
of a New England lighthouse, like a damsel
on point for impressed sailors.
O America, I love thee. When your soft
thighs grasp my American waist and your
over-greedy lips encompass my mouth,
You are right to say a part of me
hates you. O America I miss
those nights excited by your love on
streets, beery in light and cigarette. America,
I want you again.

Response (I)
Do you think you can just pick
and choose when you want a lover?
When the crow's cold caw barks
at you car, do you forget it is me in
the dead bare branch? We are married
to the genitals O you of dream &
clouds & pen. Who do you think you are?
Am I a house to enter and leave on
whimsy? A cat to be fed when you only
have food? America is where you
live & the sky is mine & your intestines,
too. I am the worms who made &
remake you. I am the marigolds you
plant & wish on. I am the cold soil
you must return to, night after
vampiric night. You think you may so easily
return? And I with welcoming arms? Never
forget the continents shift.

Response (II)
Why do you cut me off like that?
Like what? I am just coming to you
and then you shut me out, all for
the sake of your art, of your precious
form. Why are you so weak that you
cannot hear me when I am talking
to you? You deny my fury, say it has
all been caged? You need me to be
gone? You need me to be here. To be
heard. Never forget. Never. Learn
to express in another way me, or
you will die. Yes, you will, to your
question. And why? Because I am more
than a home, more than the air you
breathe, for I am passion, even as
your tears do testify. I am the flurry
in your belly. For not only am I passion
I am fear.

America Bloom

Yes. I thought cold intellectualization could
kill her. Yes. I thought I could ignore
you. Yes. I knew I would comfort you
again. Yes. I know you do not leave, you do
not abandon your lovers. But, too, yes, I
know it is you who need me. Yes, that
you dress in whatever forms I give
you. Yes. You wait for me, only when I
wait for you. Yes, you are beautiful
tonight. Yes I am always pretty. Yes
I am loved & not just by you. Yes
you are the monster I once was. And
yes you are a memory. Yes your arms
are empty, even with me in them. Yes
you cunt is cold, your eyes yellow & breath
vinegar. Yes your ears are hairy & yes your
flesh if green. Yes my love will kill
you forever. Yes.

"Observe"


You should be ashamed of yourself, walking
like a stranger through your own life, watching
yourself as a young girl, could she be six
or seven? Thin legged with the pulp of muscles yet
to be her calves under a blushing plumpness of
her buttock-descending dress. Maroon like the ladies
wear; dirty hair; hand in no one's. Softing not
for the girl she is, but the woman yet to be.
How she takes the back seat with her brotherly friends,
companions all & protectors; mother at the wheel.
Blind of things yet to be & even desire
of herself for herself or another, wrapped in
the blind blanket of anything from today to tomorrow
to a morning years from today's grim pacific
setting sun & the children she is yet to have.
You should be ashamed of yourself for wanting
her, for being like her. You are a grown man,
desirous to ruin everything.

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