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Thursday Night, Sometime in November |
by Chuck Augello
So we found ourselves embraced,
the soft landing of our lips
an unexpected twist
to your vowed indifference
to how much we'd grown intertwined.
You closed your eyes, shades drawn tight
but still—you blinked. You blinked,
and in the chaos of your rumpled lavender sheets
we became those words you never believed,
words you never said—to me.
But that didn't matter, not then, not with our bodies
locked in your second-hand sunken bed, as the opera
of distant sirens and your neighbor's TV ushered us
toward morning, toward that awkward cup of coffee
and whatever the hell might happen next.
What mattered was You—
padding toward the kitchen in my old red flannel shirt
bare feet tapping the hardwood floor
like Morse Code, symbols neither of us knew
but could both misinterpret—and so we did
As one by one I erased your scars
and traced them on my skin, like a map,
like an archive, like a secret formula
for keeping you near, but already you had vanished,
a warm fog I would inhabit—until my next wayward embrace.
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The Artist |
by Chuck Augello
The words of Picasso:
"undress so I can see if your body
is as lovely as I imagine."
I tried the same line with you,
but your dress never moved.
"You're not Picasso," you said.
So I drew your body in still-life,
a stick-figure rendering at which you smiled
and said, "I look so thin."
Still, the buttons of your dress remained tight,
leaving me with that other fail-safe, flattery and gin,
hoping it might turn you into a nude in silhouette.
But no—you fell asleep instead, fully clothed on the divan,
another seduction lost but a fine inspiration
for my next self-portrait, a stick figure bowing mournfully
to your frustrating and elusive charms.
Chuck Augello lives in New Jersey with his wife, dog, three cats, and a growing collection of dust. His poetry and fiction have appeared in Rattle, Double Think, Pindeldyboz, Pure Francis, Circle Show, and other journals.
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