"... eyes as cold as steppes, as tender as blankets..."

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Ms. McGrand

Sing Blue

Blue begins in tenderness: I'm a chalice, milk and warmed honey, water on dust, my kindness held up against her malice -- her, the Ex. I believe because I must but I wonder. Then his tenderness shifts. He doesn't call. Then cold, brutal words. By now I'm empty-armed from giving gifts. By now he's rarely there. Giving blurs to "ask and you shall receive." Then "ask and maybe," then "why keep asking?" There's always someone to say it's the old story: If you'd read the book you'd have passed the test. There's always someone who wants to help him get off the hook, to say it's a hook and I'm the spear. Didn't I sing that song? The next one holds her notes like me; she won't last long. He goes through more of us each year.





Iceberg

His sandwiches are always sloppy --
losing mayonnaise at the crust,
dropping crumbs inside his shirt.

His mouths clicks and catches,
sound smeared with quiet
in thick layers around him

Edges of his hair return to Morris-patterns,
black lace balconies enclosing
a marble, planed face whose angles

can form shapes as old as tribes,
eyes as cold as steppes, as tender
as blankets. His hands retread

their tired peripheries, and each
word I drop in, like feeding sluggish fish
sinks; his slow, angry blinks

the posture tilapia take when unsure
of their territory, right before
they rip out and eat chunks of fin.


ii.

The leaves, green, enclose a crisp
tight center, tender as anything
he ever said into the cobalt air

just after, when sweat dries into whorls
more intricate than obsidian hair;
when the tidal steam holds salt, breath,

sandalwood, awe; when break becomes join,
soft becomes pliant, touch predicts words.
Then leaves start relentlessly folding

and no future plans, foreknowledge, secret
palms along a curved thigh, arms entangled
makes the soul's return, the rewinding string

the packing up of the morning to come
any less intrusive, any less frightening.