A Poem for Chupie

March 31, 2014

Woof
woof woof
woof, on a leash
of peanut butter
and drugs you cry
in a strange room, so
alone, stuck in the
cage bought for you
by your master.

Oh, to be a pup
so full of life and then
to be old, backed
into a corner by bigger
dogs with more recent
birthdays but old age
look good on you, I
say, and you have gone
through all the phases
of doghood but the very
end stage. To
be a chupie.

Why do you make
crying sounds? I
am here and yet you
feel alone. You are
in a foreign place of
which you do not know
the name for you do not
speak except in
woofs.
Woof woof.

Oh chupster, lay
your head on this
pillow here, right here
next to the cookies.
These are not for you,
your tongue tastes like
peanut butter.

Lazy pup, with
old age comes the
love of simple comforts.
With my old age has come
a love of dogs who long
for simple comforts. We
are of the same breed,
perhaps, Mr. Chupie, or
maybe you are human.

Woof
woof woof
woof.

Sylvia

March 14, 2014

Soul sister and lover,
in dreams I kiss your lips and
you cry in my arms, hush now

My breath into your ear whispering
sounds of a language not native to
us.

Goo goo gaaa gaaa

I think you are better than
me, like these nails which dance up
and down my back, sings
poems into spines, written
by the ghost in your bedroom.

Cosmos fall from these pages, sister,
and dust in the eyes, only a subversion
from the spaces between black ink so
that each word is only a stain in the back of
my head because they are me and you
are the wind blowing the leaves
so that they make a despairing droning sound.

These fingertips scream dark truths
into a lonely room and me, the object of such truths
as whole and real as the tap in my heart, the purr
in my scream and you, the author and you,
the housewife.

I think, I need to, fix your badly burned
insides because you are me and I
am the flower inside each restless soul and you
are a watering can only half full.

Dear Sylvia, my best friend and
stranger,

you are the painful cracking
of leaves as I walk, the wet tears on a stone
near the pond. You are my fingertips
and my nightmares.

2800 miles away, in my bedroom,
tucked between a long hall and the place
where my parents sleep, I see his face. I can
follow the brow line with my fingertip, long for
the feel of his skin but bump into a tablet
screen; a 21st century mirror.

I can’t remember what we said. Can never
remember what we say except that it lasts
quite long and there isn’t any touching. Oh
but promises of touches, the kind that makes
my skin tingle with excitement, the kind I write
bad poems about.

A screen, pictures and words on a screen. I
suppose that is all I am, all we are made of
anyway and the idea makes me giddy. I like
21st century mirrors, these kind of mirrors
which talk back.
Talk
dirty
to
me.
These kind with a face and a beating
heart. The kind with a past.

We make plans to meet. This
summer, oh the summer is so filled
with hope on twenty degree days like
today! I tell him I will fly to Oregon from
New York, we will make love and he will
hold me and I will crack jokes about our
day. ┬áHe tells me he can’t wait, that I am
so pretty and he likes who I am.

He likes
who
I am.

I daydream of his body. What his hands
feel like linked into mine. I picture
kissing his neck and scratching his
back. He will give me rubs. I will bite
his nose and pinch his cheeks oh I will
not let him go and why should I —-

He is sleeping in Portland, I am
on a ferry to Manhattan. Dreaming
of
his
summertime
touch,
hoping for a fairy tale.