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Mark o' Polo Like sneaking a truffle and rearranging the box to a casual deliberate randomness without a gap, acting before thought and embracing my id, I'll spend my day, with my mischievous private secret, comforted as no one knows, wearing a bit of his cologne. 9:50 am, 5/28/98 Copyright 1998 by Sharon J. Cichelli |
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Wheel: our love A metaphor of circles. You, turning clay, While I spin tales. shape, meter, diction, form, A cup like a kiss Over secret-shared prose: Complements. 10:09 am, 5/1/98 Copyright 1998 by Sharon J. Cichelli |
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When calculus sings, I have communicated: And your heart knows mine. 9:45 am, 5/7/98 Copyright 1998 by Sharon J. Cichelli |
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Trochaic Desire I want to write you a poem, You who holds my heart so gently, But you don't hurt. I can't write of fevers and pulling and grasping, just hugs. And what significance is there in content? I want to adorn you in lyrics, As you hold my hand so warm, Friend, comfort, partner Who does not rhyme. Do you know how this poetgirl loves you, Even when her muse does not? I want to give you my words; They go with my heart. 12:17 pm, 4/11/98 Copyright 1998 by Sharon J. Cichelli |
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All Night An idle thought traced through a moonbeam follows into sunrise And returns to you. 7:25 pm, 4/30/98 Copyright 1998 by Sharon J. Cichelli |
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More or Less You want a change, More or less. I cannot love you more or less. Broken in half And dangling by a spider thread Of nasty hope Amidst demands and pushes And a look I felt pierce my gut And punch out between my kidneys When there were tears in your eyes. While I'm pounded by the tidal forces Of the event Horizon Like so much sirloin, Wishing and stinging, Burnt by a star And thinking it beautiful. Flailing Until I don't know what I want: More or less. 9:18 pm, 6/3/98 Copyright 1998 by Sharon J. Cichelli |
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Permeated In the door of the fridge, linoleum illuminated by that yellow glow that followed us from childhood through midnight feedings of one sort or another, between the beer and the ketchup, stands the jelly jar, anticipating that warm thick slice of bread already spread with a satin sheet of peanutbutter like an old lover who remembers all the best tricks. As the lid spins free in a pattern greased with practice and is teasingly lifted away, *!MOLD! irememberyou,mold.youdon'texistforme.imadeyou notexist.ibanishedyoufrommycupboards, frommyrefrigerator.andyouslippedin andyou'rehereandidon'tknowhowbut irelaxedmyvigilanceandi'vebeenkickedinthestomach, i think. How am I supposed to get over you? 8:30 pm, 7/27/98 Copyright 1998 by Sharon J. Cichelli |
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Discrete Values You watched me adjust The climate controls in my car: Full heat Or full A/C. You even commented. Now. Are you really surprised That I have to turn the knobs Hard into the blue Since you asked for less Heat? 11:05 pm, 8/5/98 Copyright 1998 by Sharon J. Cichelli |
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Will Power Why can I never remember That I am lactose intolerant? When I crave a bowl of ice cream To feel naughty with exhiliration And special enough to deserve a treat And sometimes I don't notice it While it makes my lips sticky Because I'm thinking about Later How it will Stab its way back out With razor blades Then in its wake When I'm feeling hurt and battered And missing you with tears Sometimes the only comfort Is to eat another bowl. 10:18 pm, 6/16/98 Copyright 1998 by Sharon J. Cichelli |
