Poetry 

Raree Show

When I think of time, I think 

of unbuttoning britches. 

There is a feeling bottled within me, 

and it’s bubbling, boiling over the rim 

of a potted plant, of sticky stuff, all over the stove

top, all charred flesh and caramelized lips. 

I am growing. 

What is right is right but 

it isn’t always black and white 

One of these days, a whole 

hole is going burn through

riding boots. Knee-high, I 

walked thru the mud, climbed 

stairs and watched a dumpster fire 

from the bedroom window. 

Peek-a-boo, it is true? 

I mother fucking see you, that

soft gape-mouthed mirror face, 

that slight, tight discomfort of hair pulled 

back off face, lifting the skin of the fore

head, tugging at the third eye. 

I can see, across time and space. 

When I speak of him, 

pleasure-pain receptors flare. 

I think I know how to hurt, the fixed 

quality of attention that

bestowed, silver buttons, all up

and down my back.

Jealousy gave the jitters

so I washed it down the drain. 

You better too. I remember 

those flow-charts, in teen magazines that tell you 

which movie star you're going to marry. 

I recall looking for clues about the unknown quantity 

of myself in multiple choice questions. 

Then in love letters and text messages, under 

back seats and park benches, on top 

of kitchen tables, the sense of 

waiting for upheaval, or 

at least hoping for it. 

Sometimes I don’t know, what 

I have to say, till I say it. 

Absolute time is not a line, 

it is a fracture and a fissure. 

There was a mouse, who lived 

in a house under the stove, till one

evening the cat got it. 

Claws out, I am unbuttoning 

and gripping your chin 

applying lipstick, half-sensual 

half-ritual, all hush like communion

an outdated, antiquated square toed 

kitchen tool. Beliefs, barren of 

bereavement burned in the oven. 

I forgot to set the timer. 

Be here, now 

with me, and I vow to be 

here, now with you.