HOMEMAKING 101
Ten thousand flies paper the sills with wings.
Champagne’s in soup bowls; the oven’s on.
I forget our old song,
the crumbled mortar, the busted boxsprings.
Your mother with her diamond knuckles rings
the doorbell. You kiss me, and she’s gone;
hold me close so squalor turns to home.
Limbs transcend dust. We wear out things.
Bodies and souls need no vessels.
One night––soon––we’ll tear this house down
with three-legged chairs and long fingernails;
toss matches to the shaggy lawn.
Beneath the maw of our rended roof we’ll wrestle
over which wishes to wish on stars’ quick tails.
BLACK UMBRELLA, WHETSTONE
I will die in Chicago, in the snow.
The coroners who unhinge my shoulders will display
My mile-wide bones behind glass and lights,
Bones that glow like whetstones.
I will die in Chicago, on a Friday, in the snow.
A black umbrella river will flood downtown;
Students will forget books on barstools,
Neglect to unlace boots or throw keys in bowls.
I will die in Chicago, in the slush. Perhaps
Tonight. Perhaps not, as today is Thursday.
All half-buttoned students, all lacquered girls,
All workers and loafers are out of uniform.
Awake in their lovers’ beds, late, hungover,
They will weep for me, whom they beat and beat,
Weep my obituary to a briny pulp.
BOARDERS
Crouched in thornbushes,
smoke curdles our hair.
We trade touches:
knuckles to guts,
toes to bluejeaned butts.
We grieve sexless hugs;
eat sweet food we tear
from cellophane and foil.
We forget to chew;
sleep, or pretend to;
blink chalkdust from our lashes.
We slam doors on ringing phones,
write mom: we’re fine.
We drive separate cars
into turnpike dawn.
We sing without tune.
We forget every song.
Piper Wheeler, ‘04
