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Jayne Pupek
Vanishing
Points
The sky is a baby blanket. Stars hide in the belly of a fish.
I taste oil, feel the slippery wet in my fist.
In my mouth, the debris of constellations: salt and grit.
I hear olives falling from trees.
Why do I smell green slivers of coins?
Jackson found me in Tuscany. I wish he had left me there.
The sky is a harsh sister. I dismiss
all my relatives and choose a nomad's life.
Kiss my ass and say nothing.
Rain sprouts corns between my toes.
Don't dis' my woman, Bartholomew.
The bluebird of morning is a sleeper.
I have rested in a hammock of smoke
and wiped tears on paper flowers.
Janie Rainy is a clown. She will die
in a pink room listening to bubbles
break on her skin. Black angels
smear soot on their faces
and sing praises to gay priests.
Saul Bellow is dead. Carpe diem!
Yellow roses scream, "Leave us alone."
Can anything be so simple? Dead buds
curl in wilted hands and are gone.
round I, poem 15 (April 16)
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| Jayne Pupek holds an MA in
Psychology and lives near Richmond, VA. Her fiction and poetry have
appeared in several online and print publications. Primitive, her chapbook of poetry,
is available from Pudding House Press. Her first novel is scheduled for
release Spring, 2006 by Algonquin at Chapel Hill. email: Jayne
Pupek |
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