Monday, April 20, 2015

Poem 19

Dream of Matt Damon #19

I felt so bad that Matt Damon didn't remember
the wooden benches carved out of cherry and oak.
"Remember?" I said, "We called the larger bench,
Ben Afleck," and the smaller bench, "Matt Damon?"
He didn't. But he still seemed amused. I was heavier
than he remembered, but he hugged me hard,
and said he still thought I was pretty. He even said 
my curves, like the stained wood, had improved 
with age, as he swung me above the benches 
and we tried hard to forgive ourselves for what we'd done. 

Saturday, April 18, 2015

Poem 18


Dream the Eel Slayer #18

Peering over the railing of the pier jutting
into the plummeting ocean deep, you decide
it's finally time to catch me the largest eel
in honor of the enormity of your love. Mouths
mum, we watch the sea animals churn up
the water into a dangerous frothy swirl 
of adjectives like hammerhead, electric, and killer. 
A towhead kid dressed like Holden Caulfield, 
comes back with a dragon he's caught, says
he knows the best inland fishing hole for dragons, 
but it's mainly stocked and there's a weight limit 
of how many scaled serpentines you can bring home.    
This, to me, sounds safer. Do that, I urge,
just go catch a dragon, but you insist on sea
and just then a whale shark, large as a cruise ship, 
glides by, its one giant yellow eye fixed on us
like ten-thousand suns, or just like he's asking, 
kind of casually, "What's next?"