Naked Before the Dead
by Ian Bodkin I’ve never held the nude of a spoon, Caught the reflection of knife to fork Unfastening her narrow strips of labor While boys enjoy the legs & eggs Amidst those spiraling lights—da club —of eighty’s ballads that get stuck all Days in my head to Destiny gyrating Melodies that we both believe absent . . In my garage, Catullus cusses a sparrow, Damns, kills, opines a lack of peck Between her thought & cleave, we are The age, “brushed shoulders already While we travel between the sight of sea . .” —Have you walked up to her—shuffled— spoken in dreams—offered a dance? —My sweaty palms are trying to be more than the stupidity of my intellect. This is what I will weigh before closed blinds as neighbors walk down through a transom —Do you write with your hand? —I wake or stumble to a robe behind the door, all manner of warmth has left me . Thank you for continuing to count Strewn or in speaking freely hung Between the broken limbs we would Say is a deer at his antlers along our Road . . dogs have stolen Our spotlight again.
Oh boy! You have no left handed Tact, between laughter & wine You adorn that Hee-haw-under-bitten Grin with napkins of neglect. Do you Judge this a triumph? Huh? A fool is not The discourse of the night. You are The stained toilet and measurement Of dust resting on baseboards. I’m sorry, Do you judge me a jester? Grasp The gaze of your brother’s eyes, we all Know you have forgotten your father’s
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