Two Poems:

Gym Dance with the Doors Wide Open

When the fog slunk in with that salivary,
close, coyote panting, its hue a very
huelessness, like breath huffed on a glass,
like the void stretched and still stretching past
where we'd thought it could, we felt less wary.
We felt our shoulders loosen, surrendering
to phantom hands and softly vanished feet.
The sensation was a first and last: sweet
to feel the vigilance at last suspending,
the chronic stress of constantly pretending
to know — have known! — what all the others knew.
Loopy, sly, we leered at one another
(what we just assumed was one another)
and did the things we weren't supposed to do,
grinning as if seated in the back pew
of a church that worshipped fuss and bother,
a dour church where facial expression
of any kind had been prohibited,
and where the chinking, hefty plate we shifted
hand to hand held such a vast collection
of their coin, we pocketed a fraction
for when the fog would lift, if it lifted.
But stealing from them puts you in their power.
Since then we have been paying for that hour.

The Smell of Rat Rubs Off

Once again you've fallen for the lure
of his deferral, his quick eyes' brightness
slinking from the pantry of the righteous.
Nothing half so sleek as self-licked fur.
Not that he forgot your boots, or left
A single high-aimed compliment unturned.
He'll double back, affect to be concerned
when he's the secret reason you're bereft,
embracing you with his Houdini hold,
repeating chewed-off bits of what you say
so he seems loyal, you the turncoat jay.
You'd think by now you'd learn to be consoled
to know the soul he sold's not yours but his,
though where yours was a hollow feeling is.

J. Allyn Rosser
POETRY
Volume CLXXXVIII, Number 2
May 2006

Copyright © 200 by The Poetry Foundation.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry Daily with permission.

REMEMBER TO SUPPORT POETRY DAILY'S GENEROUS SPONSORS... Sponsor PD!