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Café Town

By (March 1, 2010) No Comment

The color of your heart starts
with a freight train and runs into
slow candles smoking light
from years before channeled
through your iris
above the wooden table,
inside British village windows,
devouring me
on our padded leather bench.
I am whole again.
Your beats go invincible when
the barkeep does his secret soft shoe
to some soft ditty beside us.
I don’t mind the missing violin;
I am sweetly imbibing a foreign
fortitude: nothing terrible
will happen this hour or the previous.
After we passed the smoke
between our shoulder blades,
I cracked my glass in the door so you
would see for me. Wholesomely,
how can one carry a life
reserved, monogamous,
alert only to trade regulations,
an approaching end,
and museums called homes?
We will trade signatures one day,
and I will bestial your name.
My little finger lies between us
hiding a crack, and I cannot
fathom its meaning a self
who moves the broom or
plucks this guitar fear.
Without telling, I have tried
to say the long tall grass
we will crush with wet
in a spidery midnight.
Until then, we hold what
orphan hands first gather:
fresh tracks, a way to the crowd,
faces to wrap arms around
and a hand on the ether
through every brain’s throat
that, in prayer, swallows us now.

Amy King Amy King’s most recent books are Slaves to Do These Things (Blazevox) and, forthcoming, I Want to Make You Safe (Litmus Press). She edits the Poetics List (SUNY-Buffalo/University of Pennsylvania), moderates the Women’s Poetry Listserv (WOMPO), and teaches English and Creative Writing at SUNY Nassau Community College. King also co-curates the Brooklyn-based reading series, The Stain of Poetry. For more information, please visit http://amyking.org.