Thursday, November 20, 2008
I will tell you a story about a black virgin glove.
Never a hand in the glove.
sunset + love = good kind of glove.
But we were robbers.
We were burgaloos.
That’s what we called ourselves, me and Tom.
Tom liked to press the belly of the Happy Chef.
I liked to place a blade of grass between my thumbs and blow.
I cut my mouth once, so hard did the grass reverberate against my lips.
That’s why they call it a blade, asshole, said Tom.
We let the glove lay tenderly on the dash while we robbed banks.
While we robbed army surplus stores.
While we robbed a house with orchids in the windows.
Next to the orchids was a harp and next to the harp
a framed poem called “The Load Star.” It began
I don’t know how. But the neck of the harp was womanly and soft
like a stilled northeasterly wind. Movement glinted in the fiber.
Tom wrapped his arms around the harp and lifted it to his chest.
I did not open the door for him.
Instead I examined the orchid, the deep purple color in the center
fraying and scattering as the color moved up the petals.
I thought of my mother and the cancer in her chest.
I thought of the log we split open in the woods and then
the leg of a man we shot and how it kept kicking.
With my mouth I made no sound.
I went back to the car and put on the glove.
Tom, I said, let’s drive away from here.
My hand was warm inside the glove.
Greatness reared her head in front of me.
poem by Kaethe Schwehn
see A Sing Economy