Two Poems by Meg Pokrass

Grass Fed

Did you float home into the sun after the cooling from her bright
words, grass-fed steak, sex
slippery as ripples reflecting off
her soft-seeing, sensible face?
I imagine you still feel bruised,
in that way that one can’t smile
all the way up, the cheeks want to,
but the chin rebels… half the mouth
an obedient line drags its own path
regardless of striped dragonflies, lake-scented
wasabi-green eyes and white, white sand
ordered for a “love-moment”,
perhaps she was never scalded by parents —
never quieted their phone calls
kicking up a puddle of sound
or searched for relief from “The Time Lady”,
an ancient, young-sounding phone mother
who said, “The time is…” when you dialed,
was always there, and you believed her.

***

 Pigeon

Tonight I ate crackers with guilt instead of cheese
and thought about my cousin
who is round as weeble. I want to see
gum on the sidewalk and ignore it,

I know assholes and he is not one. He is tender
and he tucks it under his umbrella, he is tender
and his mind can taste it. Let’s say we are oozing

and let’s pretend there is no successful love
poem. I compare this
to a strike of the heart toward the very last cause,

maybe the only pigeon born
that snowy and soft, so much beauty that nobody knows
what the fuck to call it, what kind of bird it is

More poetry at Used Furniture.