The Possible Husband

hates these perpetual
Sundays, hates
the repetition of his waking
to the vague,
pink clouds idling
above his house.

He's home
right now, chasing
the last fruit around
his bowl of cereal.
He's folded
a paper towel
lengthwise, placed it
under his spoon.

The possible husband
keeps himself
busy, tells his married women
friends he's chosen
to focus on his work.
He no longer predicts
a relationship.

Late in the afternoon,
after phone calls,
after staking his tomatoes or
checking that noise
his clutch makes,

he will come in-
to his rooms
for the weekly visitation,
a parade of chimeras
who perch shoulder
to shoulder on his beige couch.

Their names are
so harmless they lift
like feathers from his tongue:
Susan, Lisa, Rebecca,
Amy, Claire, Danielle,
Sarah, or Jane; a furious
choir, they all speak at once,

and each has since come to
resemble the others, as if
his past were a police artist,

told simply, "Draw her grief
so I can see it. More like this,
and this...now, draw mine..."

-Erin Belieu (from One Above and One Below)

Man, that one brought the zingers. I like it. I've always been one to applaud the sight of drawn blood in text.

Boy-becoming-tree poem got shredded to ribbons in workshop today. I read it over and realized that, truly, it had failed to effectively convey any of what I was trying to say. Once more I've gotten so engrossed in a metaphor I let it overwhelm expression. Shows how good my literary judgment is at 5AM, which is about when I finished it. There's actual substance behind the miscommunication, though, I'm sure of it--isn't that always the way?--so I'll probably give it another go. Probably from scratch. Another day...