poem: lampshade
You think it’s absurd when i put my fingers under our only lampshade and
touch the flesh of my finger to the yellow.
it is only then You will yell -
your skin is burning and you have gone mad
“the gold band on My left ring finger has only given Me a headache”
it is SEVEN A.M. there are more important things to do, Henry: you Must Consider the Time.
daily: as i watch the news and eggs fry and a million other lazy men lay in bed, with wives who don’t touch their breakfasts,
You say it because you’re upset and You will never mean it, you swear. You don’t even mean it in your sleep, when i linger over You, ready to grasp the moon of Your body. i pluck You from the sky, my giant rock, my hunk of cheese, my saviour.
i can’t think of a time when i didn’t turn or acknowledge your remarks, except Today-
my eyes, transfixed, were on sweltering fingers as i took stock of my accomplishments:
it’s a tuesday in October, 7:05 AM, and all four are on the bulb.
And it’s glowing.
You hold
Your breath
(it’s beautiful, isn’t it, dear?)
as i haggardly count bodies of water.
Huron, Ontario, Michigan.
You tell me you love me as if i’ll forget in the space between 3 and 4.
— beverley fredborg
