Scraptals
by Olga Broumas
_______
Olga Broumas
from Opening Music and Theme Muscle
I AM OLD
I AM OLD
I AM ALMOST SIXTY
MOUTH AND
BONE UNTOLD
IT IS BEAUTIFUL
I LIKE IT
the future of gossip
because I followed you
into my own heart they will say
about me
no one else’s palm as plump
as yours, no one’s force
as private
countless but potable
rhythm, your glistening helm
at my lip
DOTCALM
I HAVE THE OLD
NOTION OF TIME
I GO AWAY
WITHOUT THE PHONE AND FAXES
EACH OF US FREEZES
OUR BIRTHRIGHT IN THE SUN
OF LIFE WHERE IT UNFURLS
ITS PUDDLE OF A FLAG
THIS IS OUR COUNTRY
CYAN REGARDLESS
THE OVERCAST
WHERE DAILY I WALK IN ITS NAKED SUNDAYS
THE BEAUTIFUL WHITE ALPHABET PEELING AWAY
THE VOX VOLTAIC
acacia blossoms in the time of three
foot snow this mild
spring winter
when I dream of men it is always you
no longer
does it mean I’ll wake
up making poppies in a crush of white
it’s pure
us loving in our barely there
adult twin bodies blonde and dark
delight in our delight
buds blazing
but when I dream of women it is always I
delighting to delight
I have seen you with my tongue’s mouth flower
everything is self-evident
until a you
what should I say
to the stars
the pain in my shoulder
the many knowledges
who vanish
until a you
not even personal
not even
asks what I do not know
I know
a poem once
but now so many
speak the once rare
I bask in the leisure
of gratitude — that too
and that
is a you
when you go away
as you do
all the way here first my heart
flexed then reflexive my
cunt in the wallow
of missing and lust
of you driving
away in the car driving in
always deeper in
you
a sudden grief
familiar from some time
ago erased my eyes
my heart was driving
perilous without periscope
and then it too
squeezed tight
If you desire peace
come to you simply
a season slightly
brushed by cumuli
at times a breathing
hibernating
polar bear in your lungs
Expectancy
ruins everything
else but may be
worthwhile
an intention
less ornery than most
but for years of practice nearly unbearable pain missing my whole body spasms
hurry
the heart leaps the heart opens the heart
closes the heart grieves
it blames it sinks
into your palm it heals
a six-inch patch of life redemption
