Monday, February 14, 2011

Poem: A Scarlet Moss. Love so slippery needs handles.

The great news is it's about two years since I've been able to write a traditionalish love poem. Love poems work best when the poet worries her love will fall prey to the myth of death; when she acknowledges the body's short span relative to life's 16 billion years. Love itself? I am full of love. Just ask me!

I love nieces and nephews, friends, trees, parks, birds, books, the arts fine and coarse. I love our short, odd incarnation in flesh, the jackhammer and its dental-like technician. Like that.  Most of all I love this, thinking, staring, writing, being; conjecture on life and not-life. 

And the word "blubbery."  Tough word for a woman. Good word for the dental technican at the jackhammer. And our progress towards healing. Bingo. Enjoy, my Valentines.

A Scarlet Moss

It was weird. Mom disapproved
and Pop started shaking
like he'd seen a fluffy pooch.
He has his fears.
I stripped.
So what if I'm blubbery.
I want to roll on whorish moss.
I could wake up or you could
set fire to the marriage counselor.
Love so slippery needs handles.
Wedding planners are a food group.
So is roast beef.
The horseradish of a different color is pink.
Perhaps you're hip: Work sucks.
That one gets folk fired.
Her husband's mean.
I hope a scarlet moss does cover the land.
All I need is
rub its science fiction with bare feet.
The human soul has been invaded.
Rub it and heal.
Sarah Sarai, pub. in MiPoesias, 2010

***rapt attention provided by Jonathan Morse and friend

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