I felt thy green love
in the tickle of grasses--
night crickets ticking
a creaky praise.
Savior, come searching
for me--
Thy precious pot-bellied
Thy worthy depressed
Thy sinful mall stalker
of sticky bun frosting--
pecans in a soft bed
of cinnamon dough
froth in the latte
of lonely strolls
heat in the temple
of backslidden hands.
JAMAICA JERK CHICKEN
Gnats dotted the tropical
pasta, as I walked round
the villa where you drank
rum, not waiting in vain
for your dinner
your lotion
your hand
Who knew
I’d be clenching a mouse
in the dial-up creak
of connection?
The newfangled curtness
of e-mail:
when you would file
how I had failed
why nothing was owed
what never to think:
you’d pound me a bird
or mix me your hot spice
again
DEATH OF A BEACH BOY
for Dennis Wilson
You beat the drum like you’d beat
a cult killer and pound the soft sons
on your block.
How to explain your planed face?
Your cheekbones and
muscular frame.
You married five times, with roses
and sparkling snow. Lost a big boat
to the bank.
Drank yourself calm
with the hobos—
dark-bearded otter,
diving for lost picture frames.
Kelp, gently waving as vodka
released y o u
bubbles, and silt on the floor.
Bionote
Laurie Barton lives in southern California, where she completed an MFA at Antioch University Los Angeles. Her work has appeared in juked, Glass, Word Riot, Prick of the Spindle, and Jabberwock Review. She is a Best of the Net finalist and winner of the New Southerner Literary Prize in Poetry.
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