FIVE POEMS – Michael Brownstein

Posted: May 22, 2012 in Fiction, Poetry
Tags: , , , ,


Because he wrote bad poetry, she loved him.
Because he sometimes laughed, she loved him.
Because he was imperfect in a perfect kind of way,
She loved him.
In the lacking of addition, she added.
Everything a silence and a motion,
A leaning into and a bending away,
A because she would always love him,
And she did.


The flannel in life the fabric of love,
Warm as sunshade across lighted lakes,
A halo around stardust, a soul around souls.
There is pleasure in a ripened peach,
The scent of a flowering prairie,
The coolness creating angels in the snow.
The fabric of love the flannel in life,
A happiness beyond seashells,
Beyond beaches, beyond a kiss.


My father was a short man,
five five, five six, five seven
thick with a heavy gray weight,
context, cocoa and nonconformity,
Every substance a different weight.
Every step another substance.


Some inspire to beauty, poetic rhyme;
others, decay and odor.
Wonder comes with word and action,
depression and destruction:
the path of broken skylines.


Cold sleeps in the room with Beauty
rearranging itself into frost giants and lumberjacks.
Snow White is still in development,
and Loki—well, he’s already a myth.
This I know: Beauty sleeps under twenty blankets
and always feels the pinch of the pea; grows her hair
long enough to cut, and cuts it; carries fresh meat pies
through the forest to lure wolves to their death
and skins them; and when she falls asleep in her brass bed,
the cold remains, unremitting, like a poisoned apple,
like a hundred year sleep, like a broken glass slipper
Humpty Dumptied into so many pieces
no prince in love can glue it back together again.


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