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Here's what I know about the man,
(about his wife, his girlfriend, all those other fictions)
that some true tales are true, and some
are trash and that, like any other transit man
he passed. And, honestly, we never met.
What I know best is photos (black and white)
an article or two, the mystery of his words that
twists me so I croon out loud some nights:
It's your hand, Baby, I adore.
My body is compliant, if out of reach.
You taught me bridge and gun, mean pleasures,
the star quality of those who pass over.
And dead Man, I'm a real fast learner—
these days I always wish you were here.
July 10
Whatever you're chasing for the hell of chasing,
quit.
July 11
If you have a mouthful of rat,
spit.
It was the tang, the sweet
slide of pain into the head,
the gasp caught under the rib cage,
the way skin felt hot and taut,
wet and necessary, the way we were
all palms and elbows in memory
but probably not in fact
since later I can't properly recall
how difficult it was to breathe
or how my shoulders and shins moved
toward that one satisfaction.
How often did I say,
'just a little one,'
out loud, before I did the thing
with the spoon,
before I slammed it home,
before I did it again?
Wendy Taylor Carlisle lives in East Texas with her husband, two cats and a dog who once chewed rugs. She has published both in print and on-line at sites like Riding the Meridian, Poetry Magazine.com, Conspire, The Astrophysist's Tango Partner Speaks, A Writer's Choice Literary Journal, 2River, Tinturn Abbey, Sarasvatzine, The Salt River Review, Mystic River Review, Gravity, Zuzu's Petals, and The Texas Observer. Her book, Reading Berryman to the Dog, is available from Jacaranda Press.