Two Poems by Kate Hill Cantrill

Wednesday, April 10, 2013

Do You Know Of A Robert Creeley?

On his death, or on
one night after, warm,
it rings, my father’s voice:
Do you know of a (dot dot dot)
Yes, I sd
You do not disappoint,
my father sd.
I was at dinner with friends—
scallops on pasta, strawberries
dipped in shock oh la!
I felt love well
rounded that night—boy;
girl; boy who looks like
father—the man who calls
when a poet strikes him.
I’ll buy his book,
my father sd.
Copy and send
your favorites, I sd
I know nothing at all—

at all at all at all—

but for the fact that love well tugs.
It so very does.
It so very, very, very.
I tell the boy I like his pasta,
the other one, his hands,
and she looks cute—
her legs twigged out
below her skirt.
I could love

the world

in one
half second.

In one

half second
I swear I could.

flsh

Fifteen Years

My husband said something
on the phone to a friend.
Our injuries are our gifts,
I wondered why I hadn’t heard that before,
why now, when he spoke to her
he said it that way:
without pause, without a crack in that,
his voice.
I shut my eyes and smiled—we had grown
far enough apart that here we lie
here we pause inside our swimming suits
and there he goes
there he grows into his conversation—
a tree bust through the sidewalk.

It’s true. They are.
He’s wise in that.
Could I swallow him? Have I
already? I used to say from me
came thee, but no we’re over thirty now.
And now came you, came you, came you.
And now came everyone
rushing forth like freaking ailments
although I love each every one.

Can we say at night: I admire you too?
Because it’d be more fitting.
And when I see you naked, splayed,
face down upon the bed I wonder, first,
just where you place yourself and just where
you’ll place you later.

It’s interesting, the words we speak.
I hold your face cupped in my hands and say
I like the taste of women. You say:
How sweet, and that you like it too.
I say they feel so small, and yet I mean
she feels so small and yet you mean
you know. I wonder, now, how long until
we end?

It’s possible and likely, even,
that this, we won’t.
To end, I mean.
For now I’m full of you my friend.
And then I feel like page fifteen

of a thousand-pager that’ll make dear reader
read until her eyes bleed out.
Oh, oh, I get it clearly now. I do, I do! I love, I love.

© 2013, Metazen.

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