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.


  1. Phil Turner says:

    No kidding. Now THAT is poetry. We have a real ringer -- the kind who can knock one out with words printed on a page and doesn't have to
    'wow' us with a cheap circus announcer's hustle!

  2. Thank you, Phil. (And thank you, Don.)