Email Poem

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Poem

Best case scenario -
my fame walking on two legs
wearing a golden helmet
(I made a bowl which I hammered
out of a lump of copper in workshop-class
aged 14, not good,
but all is golden now, for he who comes after me
has written an autobiography
that has left-out most of my failed handiworks).
He speaks from the empty shell
of a hermit crab. Distant stars love him.
He continues restoring my poems
long after they have crashed
into brick walls.

Or, he may come as the woman,
the one I have been seeking
in that frosted window of a past life,
She who I can only recall
when drunk on Blue Nun wine,
a Liebfraumilch that knits
all star-crossed lovers together
as they write themselves
quietly out of history.
In that almost land
my beloved unveils herself,
waits for my mind to open
like a blushing coral
sea anemone.

On the other hand,
he who comes after me
that man who watched my life
as if my body were at the bottom of a cliff,
he who also goads me to tinker with words,
converting them into land-mines
that sometimes maim.
If he shows up after my life
then I am going to haunt him
because he deserves to be scared
of a guy like me.

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