Door
And what will the ricochet
of my right ankle be worth
when all the scalpeled men
rearrange this bony puzzle
in the window doubling,
now, as a mirror: the person
I was before I kicked gravity
hard in the abdomen. Laugh,
babe, that’s what you told me
on the night when I asked how
I should answer those taller
versions of yourself when they
appear between the boundaries
of what that old architect let in
when he said: Put it here,
yes, that’s it, now we are home.
Sonnet for Anne
after Stephen Dobyns’ “How to Like It”
There are no dogs outside, no men looking
into Kenmores or Amanas. Trash cans
were emptied this morning, there is nothing,
just my shrill voice making high-pitched demands
about borrowing the car—the Blue Sebring
with the convertible top, to make Anne
blush. Her cheeks become cherries: fresh, ripe Bing,
the kind that would have been painted by Rembrandt.
Anne turns that cold Pepsi to sweet Riesling.
She sends Catholic school girls into a jealous rant.
Her hair tastes like lemonade and gin:
The kind of trouble all boys want to get in.
Copyright © Peter Joseph Gloviczki 2013
