Wednesday, December 30, 2009

Lori-Lyn Hurley


In the blacklit attic of his friend’s house,
chicken in the curve of the country road,
Jethro Tull and vodka OJ,
he teaches me sweet smoke shotgun
tongue kiss without the tongues,
tight corduroy, zippers and velvet.
Somebody’s mama yelling downstairs,
he lowers the weight of sixteen years
down across my fourteen while
Pink Floyd thrums my veins,
all bump and grind,
all sound and fury,
cheating dance and soft-turned sorry.
His sad eyes, her cute coat;
I was just a passing thing,
but real as the back door he broke open
to raid the minister’s liquor.
One night, one night, then two,
we slipped away like lovers.
And even though time has left us there
in that tight upstairs room,
it will always be the expressway somewhere
and roach clips on the rearview,
his hand on my thigh.

Monday, December 14, 2009

Peg Duthie


Rothschild Boulevard, 1 a.m.:
I am red light on the hem of your shirt,
pomegranate juice stinging your lips.

Oh, it isn’t true that everything is new
each time we start over. The skin I regrew
after each of our trysts is now my armor.

Well met is hell met with you, my man:
gelato will melt in neither your mouth nor mine
in spite of the lace that skims my thighs
drenched with a different perfume
than the one evaporating from my wrist.

Even as you lap up your honey-and-milk,
your phone continues its clamor at your knee,
buzzing as if it might barely contain the ire
of an eavesdropping god in disguise.

A cab inches by, its speakers groaning,
_Lay all your love on me._
The seeds on my tongue
each spell the death of a harvest.
_Don’t go wasting your devotion._ Ahhh.
It’s far too late to save myself
and yet too early to sleep.