A Living & Questions of Desire, poems published by Mercedes Lawry

A Living

Sleek cat, she curves her water-bones
around the man, thrusts
her cupped palm. He waves her off.
Threading the crowd, she vanishes
past a shoulder and a moon-face.
She makes her eyes go dead.

For days I see her, now slapping her crusted feet
down the narrow passage, now circling
the boisterous boys. By the Vltava I watch her
swing hands with the old lady,
as she leans into those wild red skirts.
Spattered laughter splits the thick, damp air,
humming with ferocity and cunning.

I wanted pleats, a dress with pleats
and small pearl buttons.
I didn’t want a microscope
but I got one anyway. A transistor radio
would have been better.
Love came on a horse and pulled me up
and galloped away, my hair streaming.
That was in my bedroom with the door closed.
That was not on the front porch.
There were guns on the front porch and in the
backyard, too.

I wanted buckskin and a fringed vest.
I was going to find the place where people broke into song.
I was hot on the dance floor, twist again,
I came in first, judged by a mother, not my own.
My neighbor was planning to kill Khrushchev.
He was a tough guy and so was his brother
and so was his sister. I could see that
it was wrong and not wrong. Thou shalt not kill
and save the world. The paradox was thrilling.