As Lovely January Unbuttons Her Blouse
my shirt at the neck
because agony breathes through cotton.
It is a stitched wound
like breath after orgasm, or
strands of red tissue paper, or
a lush trembling river—
Do you believe the pussycock stains
winnowing your bed sheets
will vanish because today is a holiday?
I suppose this is unfair of me
to ask, as is my desire
to be alone
like empty drawers pulled open,
not to be filled.
Over the roof wind rushes
like the opening of sutures.
Which color? —it is morning.
*
I see my father walk into this bar
named after someone’s father.
He is young, well-dressed, & does not know me.
Just outside a bookstore
a woman opens the new year’s calendar
sitting in her car. Not yet started.
My mother dreams her father’s death again
as he is cremated & poured into a light bulb:
at night she visits the factory of abandoned light
to find him. In the dark, thousands of bulbs
are mounted on a wall
like trophy heads,
each numbered in a cipher
for an equation.
Only by answering correctly can she pick his ashes.
*
Try waking. Or. Now,
wake in the palm of your hand.
Among the dust. Days wending away like spent leaves.
Sunlight tumbles through the picture window
glancing off your naked shoulders,
& as you push back your hair
one ear glows like a coal,
the blood inside come alive.
*
I never bring old lovers into bed with us.
But it is like what Freud said,
how when a couple makes love
there are always at least six people in the room.
& Oh
the band
is playing something sweet,
trivial as adopted reason.
They are like brass
these morning sentiments
we polish to shine,
but forget
or fail to name.
Matthew Kaler
View all poems by Matthew Kaler