Fall 2014 / Spring 2015
Steadfast and serene amidst the camera’s
fevered strikes of lightening,
the bride and groom figurine atop
their conquered glacier cake
offers a lesson in stability. Commitment
involves standing your ground.
Neither shivers with doubt.
They gaze outward at the world,
not eye-locked upon each other.
They simply loop arms to become one.
Anybody can be jealous of the life span
of sturdy plastic. Nothing will break them
apart but a hard whack from a strong
blade. Even lighting them afire would
only meld them into a single, swirling pool.
Such fantasies of destruction come
as anguished follow-up from the same
mind that urges them on, dynamic
duo in their super-hero costumes
of black and white, the colors
of all or nothing at all, which they
wisely never remove for mere mortal
wear: a jumbo T-shirt or other
sacks of aesthetic, romantic indifference.
A white plate is similar to a white tooth
in that the same bad luck may befall it:
scratches, stains, chips, breaks.
It’s cheaper though to replace a white plate.
A black tooth is not at all like a black plate.
The latter is hip. The other is not,
especially in the front. A black tooth
was born white, then became black.
You can’t say the same about plates,
or too much else. Why is a police car both
black and white? A hot fudge sundae?
Yes, they both have a bit of red on top.
We’ll return to red in a bit.
I don’t see dark brown as really black.
Beige is more light brown than lily white.
Someone may turn white as a ghost
but never white as a plate. So why
are ghosts white? To see them in the dark?
Turning white is a loss of red, of blood,
like the dead. A brown woman pales
as a white plate flies mysteriously
off the shelf, assaulting her
with a blackening eye saucer
and front tooth to follow. Over her brow
at the point of impact, a silent siren
unrolls its hot, red ribbons.
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