What it Would Take

First draft of two (very) new poems. I don't know if I like them yet. Also, for reasons I don't quite understand, Blogger refuses to recognize the subtleties of format "Lover's Philosophy" ought to display. Why???

Very blah outside today. I'm melancholy without any real excuse...somebody call me. Anybody. Seriously. Save me, at least for a few moments, from this Sunday-afternoon funk.

Becky Adams
What it Would Take

Fourteen guys with big hacksaws and chainsaws
and a snarling teenager with a butterfly knife
and seventeen German Shepherds with no training
collared in bulging chains whose stamped steel links
I could eat dinner through,
coming at me in the dusk that is worse than dark
because it distorts the light like a fogged-up
bathroom mirror rubbed with a wet towel
or those teeny eighteenth-century window panes,
could probably convince me to start seeing
someone else. Barring their maiming/cutting/jostling/
angry words/bony teeth/physical obliteration,
I own you. You’re mine, baby.

___________

Becky Adams
Lover’s Philosophy

If you believe in Boston, in England,
in all places I have never been,
then what is left for me

but to trust you
always, and implicitly, so that you may
say to me anything

—the moon is a great tightening
of the galactic larynx—

and I will have to believe,

or to trust you never, and reject
you inherently

—I love you, I want you,
I think you have a beautiful mind.