Belt

We saw Pisa but you'll never see Venice.

There is a photo in front of me now--

you in my arms, Libby at my side--three

of us leaning, making the tower right.

That's one thing my therapist would say:

You feel guilty. I’d disagree, but he kept

coming back to it. I’d say I’m hard on myself,

a perfectionist. Take tennis I'd say,

I focus on the work not on winning.

Between half my age and hip the men are

who tuck their shirts these days into jeans.

I rescued a few button downs worn more

than a decade ago at the office

and in business class lounges far away

from home. Far away from you and Libby.

I committed to Hilary I’d wear them

in Venice--not just sackcloth and flannels.

It wasn’t just the sorting and packing

and the move; it was soccer again.

I replaced the belt. The one with a steel

tip and buckle, disintegrating as we speak

by sweat, and bending and sawing and tearing

autumn olive out of the ground. I will

have a stove at the cabin with a fire

you'll never feed. I want to feel less bad.

Guilt is flowering on barren ground.

Assignation

John and I used this poem, among other props, to discuss my guilt. He says I am constantly surveying the landscape, the walls around me, the trees for mistakes I can make.

I say I'm looking for opportunities for guilt.

He says that sounds like something the old Woody Allen would say. John says stuff like that.

We are in the middle of a long debate about me the poet (the writer) and me. Why & when & what happens when I put on the writer's hat. "Assignation" is a good poem, he says, but it is clearly illustrates, too, that the problem isn't "love," or "poem," it is my focus on the word problem.

Assignation

The assignment this week
was to write a love poem.
     “I want to undress you with my words.”
I struggled, you see.
Maybe the word “poem” was the problem.

I want to meet your lips at my door.
I want to lead you inside
and leave us open to birds and the sun.
I want to pull you close
feel your hips against mine.
I want to slip my hand under your top
trace your shoulder blade with my thumb.
Maybe I’d pause, then, if I could,
and lift my face from our kiss.
But still I would stay close,
breathe your breath,
rest my forehead on yours and ask
     if you’d like a glass of wine
     if you’d like me read you from Howe, Gilbert, from Bishop
     if you’d like to lay down on the rug and let me undress you.
I watch your eyes watch mine asking me
     who is this guy?
     what does he want?
     why is he so quiet when we talk,
     when we make love?
I unclasp your bra and slip your shirt over your head.
I kiss your neck, kiss the strap off your shoulder.
You let your bra fall.
Maybe the word “love” is the problem.
I drop to my knees.
Maybe the problem is me.