On the theme of Rivers
Love Poem to Macon
Hello T,
—swirl like the eddies in a river—
Hello sweet little,
Hello Cadbury,
Hello golden saxophone,
—but I want a fresh drought—
Hello drummer girl with cymbals,
Hello oscillating fan,
Hello Dixie cup filled with God,
Hello my little novel of charms,
Hello my little poem made of flesh,
Hello business card waiting to be filled,
Hello newsletter of good news,
Hello sweet, sweet,
because that’s what everyone talks about
when this body of water crosses their lips:
of you from the middle of somewhere
where the where means else-
where, anywhere else, that is, because the middle,
where you are, is not here, where I wouldn’t
have to say where, where is my darling,
my smile in the morning, where have all the flowers gone
to the bank and cashed in their checks
and moved because of you
who made their pinks and blues
obsolete, who can be the spring
in my shotgun or in this dingy apartment,
which is like a cave only darker—
if I could have one wish it would be time
to think of more wishes so that I could rose you
with them, bathe you
in the petals of wishes, then I could place you
by my side like something biblical, like something
every southerner wants:
a home that is certainly a home
and by this we mean not walked
over by heels, grave-like, for you are my home
where I find shelter,
where I look inside to seek a little taste of myself,
curling round my fingers. Your skin is cream
and custard; said hair, twining round said digits,
hardened sugar topping you, my rasp-
berry, my raspberry, your picture on my desk,
instead of the ever-blinking telephone—I wish
the fan would never oscillate and the air
it blew over my sweat would smell
of Mexico tinged with your hair—I wish
I could take your hair to Mexico and find
the rest of you there waiting, bald and hopeful—
I could kiss your hair to your scalp and wish
for dos margaritas, wish for your eyes, wish
for the sea in your eyes, the green gray blue
of the Pacific, on the horizon a rock,
myself, staring hard back, longing for your shores—
I just want you to know that you are my itchka
amongst other russianisms, my querida
amongst other mexicanisms,
my lass, oh Scotch highland singer,
my very own precious plot,
I till thee, or you—only to be formal—
and you and I grow—we are our corn,
our barley, we will be beer, as they say,
according to Franklin (oh
sacred god of all who say good things)
we will unfamish the multitudes,
we will be the food of our own
undying race, our own brood of billions,
and let us dream that not ever
will they drink us dry of scotch,
of Budweiser. But I don’t love you any less.
The lizards lounge on sun-soaked rocks
their hearts pumping blood that heats
the tissues of their limbs, their tongues
etching a note on the air, something
about how I love to love the way you love
me, which is to say I love not love itself,
but the beloved: you who hold my lizard
heart that beats, warming my tissues,
my tongue a poem
for you, something maybe love,
which is to say it is this, this poem
I have twisted from its tongue
onto this page for you and only you
and everyone else.
Author Biography
Jamie Iredell is author of The Book of Freaks.