late summer love poem for Edward
the
city was an electric blanket over the land
we
sat on its knees and ate pistachio nuts
I
had a pain in my side named Aztec Hamburger
we
were writing to erase and to accompany a sarabande
a
sarabande is a dance but not exactly
a
kind of hat you can pull down against the rain
if
there were going to be any rain
the
city was a red furry blanket that had never been laundered
we
sat on its back and ate guacamole
I
had a pain in my side named Private Collection
we
were writing to some Aztecs about their calendar
a
calendar is a good friend to have but not exactly
a
kind of refrigerator in which the light has burned out
if
there were going to be any light
the
city was a paper hospital gown over the land
we
sat on its belly and ate olives
I
had a pain in my side I couldn’t name
we
wrote to erase and write again
again
is a word reserved for the open sea
a
kind of sea in which you can rest completely
upheld
and caressed and made love to by the sun
inventory, June1st
into a slender
dream ankles
cobalt
gunmetal
ochre
umber
I have come in paint
to be painted over
because life has been other
than a heart
sweat
electricity
puddles & wet where
water came in & urged
detachment
& sliding down
now it is a memoir
but I keep hearing
that song
the one that goes
what have you done?
Valerie Coulton’s books include still life with elegy, small bed & field guide (both from above/ground press), open book and The Cellar Dreamer (Apogee Press). With husband Edward Smallfield, she’s the co-author of lirio and anonymous, both from Dancing Girl Press. She is also a co-editor at Apogee Press and she curates palabrosa.net, an online chapbook and interview series.
