Cary Briel

Detached and removed,
indifferent muse.
Coy, in the shadow,
crafty and smiling.
You play hard to get,
flesh covered,
no ankle
or knee.
I’m here, here to stay,
nothing distracting
all day.

We’ve been there
and haven’t,
eyes lie about much,
cartoons
and figment,
still wondering where I went.
And the ribs say, yay!
And time draws to a close,
feet fade,
and muddy toes.

What’s left is heart stuff now,
and I suppose the closing down
of similitude, idol, and image—
I wish you could be here to see it.
The wall, slender, on a hill,
the light a basket couldn’t hide,
poured drop for drop into
wineskins of star stuff.
But to me, you’re still brilliant,
sitting amidst your papers,
your books
and floppy disks,
obstinate as ever—
a loner, waking, working, sleeping
on a broken couch,
amidst madness and sense,
asking me who we are.

The snowman looks like
a debok, more
than the happy pipe smoking
chap we built this morning.
The dog huddles warm
inside his house,
and I hide til Spring.
Chris says she loves it,
but I’ve not yet seen her
rosy skin,
nor wave her wings-
a snow angel in our lawn.
The birds have hidden in their
nests, in branches,
magic, somewhere in a tree.
I can picture the scene-
limb and grass, nest-woven,
covered white.

She had no idea
not a one
that angels shadowed her
moon and sun
as she climbed toward
she knew not what
rung by rung

People love things,
like chocolate,
the ocean,
things that give pleasure
or pain I suppose, like
bondage–
handcuffs,
whips,
ropes and their burns,
constricting at places,
anatomical, places
you’d never tell your mother.

When I was young, and still
even,
though I never play anymore,
I loved small engines.
I knew an old man, selling
Briggs and Stratton,
Tecumseh,
Kohler,
a rotund old man.
He took ten minutes to walk from
his house to the shop,
where thick books took the space
a computer would these days.
But the computer wouldn’t smell
so musty,
so wonderful,
and would be way too up to date.

On the shelves in the back,
wonderment–
carburetors,
needles and floats,
head gaskets,
pistons and rings,
valves and springs,
points and condensers,
magnetos,
and the always flywheel keys.

The smell of gasoline
could be pheromones to me,
twice as much so when burned
through a combustion chamber, that is
if the points are set at .020,
if the condenser is good,
if the magneto and flywheel and spark plug
are gapped.

Perhaps I should drip
gasoline at the constricted places, once
the handcuffs and ropes
are in place.
But unleaded regular or premium?
I don’t think I can smell
the difference.

She knows,
as do all unassuming.
She steals away
the lover’s eyes,
the businessman in his meeting,
the child from her mates,
when her feet take her
scampering after.
God, don’t let her trip!
But she’s taken,
entranced,
by her orange and her black,
by her shooting to left
and then right,
her ascensions
and falls,
this butterfly’s far more majestic
than all.
Mamma sees
and makes chase.
Oh, Helen, you can’t run like that.
But Momma, I’m flying!
Look, I’m flying like her, look!
Yes, Helen, but be careful.
Oh, Dear……
Between willow
and cattail
she dives and she swoops,
Oh, Helen!
Oh, Momma, did you see
how she flew?
Then landing on Helen’s
pink nose,
the blur of her wings
does switch to slow flapping.
And Momma’s tears
escape Helen
for years and years.

Your pretty eyes
dart, gaze from behind
your mask,
your facade.
The bend of your knee
is all that I need
to sustain the day.
The angle of your ankle
subdues the monster
in man.
Strength fades.
He’s owned by
the weakest,
the smallest.
Big muscles sit
outdated,
outmoded,
while prettiness sighs.
Little one
supple,
sensuous,
I will climb back
into the womb,
I’ll be born again,
forget
what facilitation,
what imposition,
the time of the wall
that would be a door,
when you looked so comely,
so pleasant,
so accommodating,
when you overtook
by being overtaken.

You’re pale,
your blood seems let,
and yet I love you, still.
I lift your hand, it’s faint,
to interlace its fingers
and warm you,
if only a little..
Your knees fall either, or,
and I fall on you.
How much
do you remember?
Short gasps,
arms stretched, feet and toes
crossed…
you’re limp,
barely alive…
I push your knees up,
you cry
and gasp,
and you hold my hands tight.
I’ve fallen into you
completely, love..
utterly..
and you know it..
and you hold my hands tight.
How much
do you remember?
Your sweat,
your clammy hands and feet,
your hot breath,
your spit,
sticky and wet…
and dizziness,
and heat,
fluttering eyes,
pale knees
pressed into sheets.

It’s shiny
and that’s the in.
It could be a bracelet, ring,
or even—especially—
shoes.
And I say, I can write this.
You wake and think,
‘I will be pretty.’
You can’t possibly know
that it’ll bring a smile,
that a beat will skip,
that you’ll draw eyes
in passing,
or from a distance,
and that it says something.
It’s shiny
and so are you.
My heart leaps,
as you pass, and I think
we knew each other,
it must be true,
in other worlds,
in other lives,
and I held your hand,
and you cried.
And I must have loved you so.