The Willingness to Believe in Easter Eggs

03.01.01
12.27.03

“The willingness to believe lies.” “Frivolous details
from popular culture.” This poem wants to monkey-arm
your neck, shimmy nipple nubs against your blouse, nip
your fingers between translucent teeth and ride you home.
This poem wants to rubble in your palm. This
poem smells like lanolin and milk. “I didn’t go
any further than that, I think most people who
write snow poems don’t.” “If the line’s already
been used, then why use it?” My lover carries
my name-lace with his keys, and when he takes it out
for sleeping and drapes it tangled on my lotion-cluttered
nightstand I like to see the silver tarnished
by his touch. –Your skin must taste like
cranberries, your hair like walnuts. Tommorow Robin
and Aliyah are wed. Jobless I have no gift.
“skin-time” This poem wears a necklace of
rhinestones and rosary beads. “But...we do that,
we say things one way, and then we go back
and say them in another way.” “It’s a map
of heights.” “Yeah, it all depends on the
rhythm.” “It’s just part of my personal thing, I
don’t like similes that much.” I think about
the stiff cotton and dye smell of unwashed Levis
and the flatness of bank-fresh ones. “I felt
a little rusted in the Easter egg stanza.”