midnight at the edge of a brimful of tea
red at the sleeve, angle of three
herald the dog bark that tree bark could chip
pieces of branch at the shed of a lip
lover I miss you the boy who I praise
the boy who will leave when the leaf-carpet stays
at the dawn of the fall and the rise of the set
the boy with the night-eyes I’ll try to forget
twelve twelve by the counting, one two on the line
silence of thousands, list of eighty-nine
two hours fifty seven minutes to wait
two hours and fifty eight minutes too late
love who I miss you the boy with the sky
coming out of his forehead when streetlamps fly
who’ll pocket the blue when he earns every stripe
of the white on my shirt and the red of the ripe
four corners to bite with the skin of your teeth
rip dollar from dirt dig the worms underneath
crawl nail in the dashboard to steady the turns
gravity gravity inertia burns
five minutes later I’m scaling the sides
sipping the darkness and stirring the tides
touch on the window, the feel on the screen
a landscape of greenness surrounding the scene
a crime is a catalyst, ending creates
a grey is a shade too obscure for these states
I sweat your fatigues and wear out by the root
gown on in a stirring black tea shedding suit.
Marina Blitshteyn
the chinese next door tended to their lawn
girl, little boy would mow the grass
mother hunched over a small plant
gloves and slim workpants
father would drive up in a Japanese car
piano keys trailed in from their elegant rooms
over the wooden gate
into our backyard
flowers bloomed and drooped
girl got taller
little boy got slender and shaped like his father
mother put on floral skirts and made phone calls
outside
we don’t know where the children went,
thin girl about my age, little boy becoming a man now
the father stopped coming home one day
his car still in their neat garage
mother still takes phone calls outdoors
still kneels vaguely by a few small plants
and the music doesn’t play in their family room anymore.
August 10, 2005
Marina Blitshteyn
