Or how . . .

Or how the music cycled . . .
And the movie . . .
Or how the street disappeared . . . and the people . . . and the sounds . . .
and time . . .
Or how your lips . . .
And your skirt . . .
Or how you said I have to . . .
Or how the waiter knew . . . and the others . . .
Or how you sat back . . .
And your eyes . . . closed . . .
Or how your fingers . . .
Or how your bracelets guided my hands . . .
Or how you sang . . .
And danced . . .
Or how your legs . . . and arms . . . and shoulders . . .
Or how . . .

Instructions for Dancing

I love it, when you sing to me.
          - Peter Gabriel, The Book of Love

The whole thing enigmatic.
You can hardly keep up
with inquiries, so you shift down, and begin recalibrating.
Her shoulders seduce,
their angularities the kind that sell.
Vendors arrive, and fishmongers.
Wine glasses mingle.
Her bracelets speak of other worlds.
And now you're crossing the street,
and she's asking . . . something?
Sit down on this bench, please, take a break, rewind the tape.
Meanwhile, The Life of Pi  in the park.

Martina Hoogland Ivanow

No Filter

          for DD

The sound of her anklet
in the darkness
carries
hundreds of miles.

Run Through

. . . probing what we feel we know for some kind of truth.
          - John Hollander (1929-2013)

The rewrite, darker than riddles, upends you.
Is this how it is?
You return to your room
and the tented books
and your search for a common theme
in last chapters.
The voices continue.
The feeling of motionlessness . . . again.
Did you think the misunderstanding had settled
after that morning in the coffee shop
when she asked about the book?
Turn the page.
Read. Please!
Go through the motions.
The chat was inevitable. Insignificant.
The font size a diversion
resurrected from long ago summer evenings.

Deborah Turbeville

Saturation Row

The slippery slope as uninvited guest:
redeeming coupons at the door, insisting on backordered colors.
You've tried to placate some with your whimsicality
but words bottlenecked
and you were left holding empty seats.
The sun did come out tomorrow but went back in
the Do Not Disturb saying more than we needed to know.
And you're wasting time weeding?
Translate the next chapter.
Don't be put off by Sanskrit.
It's only language, one, in fact, that encompasses immense musicality.
Your earbuds will be prancing along
as happy as a summer fly before that thoughtless hand
that continues to put a damper on things.

Deborah Turbeville

Coasting Along in a Clown Car

And so you begin telling a story . . .
a short story . . .
a short story with an unhappy ending . . .
just to show off . . .
just to show that you can . . .
tell a story with an unhappy ending . . .
about the Founding Mothers . . .
and Founding Fathers . . .
who tried to lord it over . . .
riding around town in a clown car . . .
not unlike you . . .
coasting along in a clown car . . .
until the gig backfires . . .
leaving associates picking nits . . .
standing on their heads . .  .
in the rain . . .
picking nits . . .
the water level rising . . . .
On the other hand . . . nothing . . . .
This could be a wake-up call . . .
a wake-up call . . .
at an inopportune time . . .
but then you knew what was coming . . .
you'd read the menu . . .
outside . . . on the door . . .
before you entered the fray . . .
before you entered the restaurant . . .
and now you're being seated . . .
and it's too late to return . . .
the damaged goods . . .
too late . . . to return to . . .
the damaged players . . . .
You've overshot the grace period . . . .
You've overshot the grace . . . period . . . .
You could have at least tried . . .
to repair the plumbing . . .
to repair the roof . . .
to flip the bungalow . . .
to make reservations at a Three-Star . . .
but instead you decided to tell a story . . .
a short story . . .
a short story with an unhappy ending . . .
just to show off . . .
just to show that you could . . .
just to show . . . whatever . . .

but I know you better . . . .

Woman XLII

She says she'll be wearing a tunic.
I think Lawrence of Arabia.

Sustained Effort

Demonstrating the proper form for free weights
on the flimsy scaffold in the winkling of a storm
then the absence
the break in the purpling days and nights
the nights rife with howling
time witnessing the palpability
sauntering through the early morning railroad flat.
Perhaps you are still overwhelmed
despite the smothering insistence of imposters
who keep arguing
You think it; you did it.
One thing leading to another . . . then another . . . then another
the Rothkovian blur between love and hate rubbed raw
the principal inducted into the minority of givers.
How sweet it is?
Your first thoughts? The accoutrements of passion?
All part of the con hung out to dry
within view of the nosebleed section in this miniseries.

Martina Hoogland Ivanow

Coming Full Circle . . . Again

Stuck (in traffic) these however-many years?
Evidently there have been other pilgrims in the breakdown lane
counting grains of sand, the relentlessness of we
driving them through the drive-thru at Dunkin'.

But I need more time to decide.

You're reading from the monitor, yes?
No! No! No! Everything looks good.

Everything is good.

The colors change over time, you know.
You begin taking missteps, thinking adventures,
thinking Now it's time for me!

And maybe it is, but more often not.

The full catastrophe at the door, refusing to buckle down
and repair the roof, micro-managing as if nonchalance.

Tennessee Mountains circa 1800s

Woman XLI

Twining psychological insight
with anthropological acumen
she nails my motives
leaving me curbside catching my breath.

Abbey Lee Kershaw