Three Poems


Jami Macarty

Endangered Species
 
Pearl hail came from the sky making bodies and industrial
machinery continuous with what we've said might feel

liberating, but the bodies have been eaten by what
surrounds them. A snippet has no more depth.
 
Tiger-bone wine is said to give the drinker the sexual
stamina of the tiger. The greatest thematic coherence:
 
following the grain of berries. The liqueur affects
desire, not ability. With undainty haste, always yes and no.
 
It is not that unusual, I am told, to pucker your heart at
the shrubbery, once it has been pruned. The illicit thing
 
I am going to do is partial. I can pull certain themes together.
They came in late with zinfandel on their cheeks.
 
Accretion of context, but not meaning. The division
seems flimsy. Connected to other such moments, but not
 
seriously. It’s hard to imagine someone sitting down to lunch
and flattening a lemon between the teeth.
 
It might be difficult in a whole different way
than they told us. We'll conclude at the serial killing
 
of endangered species owing to the enormous demand
for aphrodisiacs and medicine no stronger than aspirin.
 
If we leave out elements, the story can feel ominous.
Then, in some sense, heroic. That guy who's not
 
married to what's her name. Lifestyles, which is now
the name of a condom, it turns out, help keep
 
the demand infinite. Out of the grid of structure,
the last gesture towards the body.
 
 
 
 
Vending Machine
 
          A woman says, no, I am the one who is going to have sex tonight, for the first time
in a long time
. I look at her long enough to notice she's wearing a green dress. I must not
eavesdrop. Through the mouth comes too much romance—
 
          Before the description of sunrise colors, I stop reading. I can stop the sun if I want
to, but I cannot make us tell the truth. My mother, afraid and unthinking, wouldn’t go in
the pool with me. The most beautiful is the object which does not exist—
 
          The teeth of the stars gleam in the finite heaven above our city. In this country,
we are any number of small creatures who have only action to delineate themselves—
Imagine the body meandering without its logic—
 
          Over her newspaper, over the landscape of hotel sounds, my mother said I must
not eavesdrop or stare at the sun. The man forces the woman's legs to spread from
behind. Life through the mouth becomes dangerous in bed; becomes what I wear;
becomes how I say hello—
 
          Wherever in this city we cling to each other, if just for a moment—A calculated
bidding in memorial to a future era or whatever—of importance to those not having the
baby— I did not yet know how to swim—
 
          In this country we are any number of instruments of varying size, used for pulling
down, breaking up— I must not look at the sun—The woman’s knees bruising against the
trunk of the sedan in the parking lot—
 
          What kind of a world do you think we live in? A messiah alone is not enough.
Life through the mouth of talk-radio beats the ears of the listeners. I must not
eavesdrop—The desert is hot with disbelief—
 
Sunrise seems to hesitate in the book. I read that line repeatedly— I will not read
on. I am in control. The most beautiful is the object— Life through my mother's mouth
forbid me to look at the total eclipse of the sun when I walked from the hotel pool to the
vending machine—
 
 
 
 
Shortage
 
Would defining offer solace or signal aching shortage?
 
        ::
 
Dries you up desert   It takes   and taking   keeps
 
        ::
 
Broken antique ciel
Pas de musique pour la semaine

 
        ::
 
Roll train     vision by
Car-boxes split by     in-betweens     made of light
 
        ::
 
Widely taken personally     I itself     gelded there      shame
 
        ::
 
Her relative touched her       in the unpermitted bed
Now as adult     knows     doesn't
 
        ::
 
Women spite-spoke     which sentenced
 
        ::
 
Someone ask ask ask
Demander a quelque chose        a quelqu'un
 
        ::
 
If not that this         This      that