Love Poem Number 6

Ambrosia with My Rice, Please

I.
Y
ou became to become. It was a process,
like baking a cake. You failed
and went flying out my window,
six feet from the asphalt. You
skinned your knee.
I was scalloping potatoes.

I wanted Roman lore. Mercury
makes madness.
All I got was
Greek gore; so much clapping in
the kitchen. A little ambrosia with
my rice, please.

Make it cyanide. How long
can you hold your breath under fire?

I learned young; am still young,
am still learning. That's a genius.
There's another to your left
with more fashion sense.

The constellation
changes. I am one step ahead
of the stars. Chameleon since birth;
I dismiss lightly the redundancy of names,
belonging to bodies, counted by
ten until the room is full of
syllables.

II.
I decide to know you only
through touch. Refuse
to see you. Refuse
to speak you. Refuse
to hear you.

Tensions: pulling and pushing and
prodding―rendering me paraplegic
and panting. I counted by
ten until the room was full of
compasses, pointing in your
direction. Still I would not
pronounce you.

III.
She didn't want to live this life.
There's nothing pure about it. Because we
are civilized we don't fuck our mothers.
This is necessary knowledge. She never
cared much for fairy tales (didn't see
how they applied to her). Still,
when Atlas shrugged, she toppled.

Not all planes fly. If you are
Three meals a day, you are holding me down.



Jennifer Miller is slowly completing a B.A. in English Literature and Women's Studies at a university in New Jersey.


These five poems are part of a series of nine "love poems" that explore ideas of identity and identification through the concept of love.

 

 

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