SPARK

untitled

(For F.S Moskowitz)

she doesn’t tell us

“slow-ly”

no adverb wielding Philistine she

prose enunciated with practiced languid ease

she describes heartache down to the follicle

Some slow pull of vodka over ice

And the verb is ever the thing

.

hers is a monarch’s glorious palette

and her aim is as true as her chestnut gaze

all conversation begins there iris smooth

we are alive in her stare

.

she hears my story of the wrinkled dress

“Well, that’s the worst thing I’ve ever heard.”

her hyperbole is dead on, but she smiles to make it okay

giving comfort to the goyische girl

and she knows a hymn or two

Jesus loves me this I know…

for the Bible tells me so

.

flattened palms cool on the table

she bows to the power of words

it’s how we’ve anticipating the celebrated face

mapping devotion with candy recipe precision

her four-score is just hopscotch

this is why we came

.

and so goes the poet biographer’s folly

pulling together strands of liquid smoke

beggaring the weave

.

hers is the endlessly taught lesson

the bylines may use some phrases for the phenomena

but no slant of syllables could represent her

she is the joyfully whispered confession

tiny shoes impossible to fill