Three Poems by Carol Rouslin

 

 

Die liebe Farbe

Tooling up
in a lemon MG

I toss you a cornucopia
dripping yellows.

Open it. It
is for you.

Squash, fried chicken,
corn bread!

A sweater from Paris,
pure laine, gold

rings, a blanket order
for as many lions

as you can handle.
Goldfish, a chain

of daisy centers
defoliated by Goethe

in his youth. But look
at them now!

A head of hair (mine),
leaves in autumn, all

fallen for you. Tomorrow,
I swear it, the sun.

 

 

 

The Words

The morning they arrived
I was still skeptical. Overnight
they had gathered like tribes.
They were falling from the air
in ribbons of flame. Clapping,
hammering in my teeth, they said
"You will carry us. We insist
on your strength. We are everything
given back. Trust us."

I was appalled. They had brought
their toothbrushes. They were moving
in. Opening doors and windows,
kissing me like children, chattering,
making rash promises. My crotch hair
stood on end. It was all over.
I would have to make room.
Feed them, take them for walks,
tell them stories about themselves,
let them walk like kittens
on my typewriter keys and print
my poems with their paws.

In desperation, I plotted
revenge. I'd teach them
musical notation, watch them
grow lean with envy. Or bundle
them off to the Himalayas
to consider ascetic alternatives.
"Do the stars speak?" I asked.
It was useless. They shone
with love. They knew their place.

 

 

Last Day at the Gazette

 

While Mrs. Gordon bent
my ear about her rain-
drenched horoscope the district
manager was running stag films
in the basement.

I imagined my sister
and me appearing briefly
attired in autumn just
before the door
-to-door salesman came on
strong with a battery-
powered personal vibrator,
nothing attached. I missed
the rest to place a want
ad for a milking machine.

Before lunch the boss
came back upstairs to say
my purse was made of real
foreskin. Rub it a couple
of times it turns
into a suitcase. I quietly
made a request for more
toilet paper to take
the newsprint off my ass
and addressed this poem to Miss
Mabel Peefy of 418 East
Bloomington who hasn't
been getting any and never
gets her paper.

 

 

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