I Can't Write to All the Blondes
so accidentally I grew a huge hole
say baby / it was my woman that went,
I keep a few facts with her
but mostly am peeking
at how a face gets brilliant
what plays anatomy for rent
she said excellence in a job context / grows my sadness too
I added that last part, or
the enhance effect
got base now
left me for crabbing / on a shore so awash &
every time I start a mascara
a tortoise gets wings
or masturbation
kills seashells
How I Make My Own Chin My Chin
This morning everyone's my friend,
everyone is someone I could say
hurrah to & they might think it were all.
They let it be all to me today. My mind
gets smaller around & has to take less
notes. I let the facts just stay around.
Around a biblical range of humans
I have corners. I draw on my factoid
about mercy to entertain them--
when I say something wrong on purpose
everyone laughs & pleads for another
of my kind of exit. My benevolence
is not for rent. It forgives because it
likes to not see out. It likes its hair-filled
face. When my benevolence and I go padding
around we are quiet for a reason. We
know how to spear all charity in.
Do you see us as a marching band with
meaning? Do you see us as the altar
in your funny marketplace? We like
hunting more than serving. We pray
waiting tables will be loved by someone.
A prayer for some high school art:
a prayer for things trying to
be things. I jumped on someone's
back this morning to see if the back
of their head knew what prayer was.
It turned greasy as I drew closer and
would not clear when I drew tufts away.
________________________________________
Leora Fridman is a writer, translator and educator living in Massachusetts. Her recent and forthcoming publications are included in Denver Quarterly, The Offending Adam, H_NGM_N, and others. She is an MFA candidate at the UMass Amherst Program for Poets and Writers where she is Assistant Director of the Juniper Institute and co-curates the Jubilat/Jones Reading Series.
