Tenor Suite – Maya Lowy
I love you less than the others. Still there is something,
clean loess of your skin for warm seeds,
freshwater sweat between us for the carp.
You are an acre of endless wheat.
Trace cold knives over me and see what stands,
hold me like a saxophone: requests
I keep biting back. I don’t know your sister’s name.
Missing the limb of battered brass,
your hand curls on my thigh, feeling for keys.
I keep my eyes on my own raw nails, I turn on the oven.
Peripherally you rise.
Image of a plane going down the runway:
it enters with you, vivid and unbidden, the 747.
I can’t see
how kingly you are
glazed in my uterine blood.
Maya Lowy has never kissed an Aries, changed a tire by herself, successfully used a joystick, or been stung by a bee. However, she has forded the Salmon River, excavated a Paleolithic site in Transylvania, milked a goat, and lost to a Scrabble world champion. You can follow her jokes attwitter.com/mayalowy and her rarely-updated adventures atfuckintruckin.wordpress.com; offline, she’ll be happy to challenge you to a darts game at any bar in the New Orleans metropolitan area.