“and even you forgot those brilliant flashes seen from afar” —Ruth Stone I should have taken you up on that trip to Mexico—my only chance to swim in the gulf, to surfthe exotic and erotic; tequila, bizarro birds,burnished sunrise through slats in the shutters,instead of a turndown. My big mistake was to playthe fool—too cool for school. I should have held youin my strong arms, … Continue reading Regretfully Yours by Dale Champlin
The stars know everything—how we toiledover every piece of furniture we own—the mohair sofa with its button tufts,the dining room table sweat-polished smoothas glass, your dad’s easy-glide Barcalounger.We thought the bed too tame—mundaneas white-on-rice. That was before we did it on the lawnat four a.m., the boat dock when the tide was out, the army hammock and the diving board.We worked over the meadow, the hayloft,the … Continue reading Come, Lovers of Dark Corners by Dale Champlin
-for my husband I have climbed you like a flagpole and left you at half-mast.I have run roughshod over you then begged for more.I have cracked you like a safe and looted all that I could carryI have cried on your shoulder and hung you out to dry.You are Everest to my Mariana Trench, a matchstick to my bonfire. I duck when you deluge and squint when you shine.You mean the world … Continue reading Otherwise by Dale Champlin
I’m liking this thing called sex, the way my spineroots me to the bedclothes; my DNA tinglesinto my ecstatic shoulders, the branchesof my arms to my fingertips—thoughtdissolves—delicious oblivion. I float, a girl again,maybe a boy. Under my goosebump fleshall splayed ringlets—I elevate, scrumptious. Crucified between cloud-drift and gravity, I go the distance; a cry arcs full-bodied,unrhymed from the shivers at my foot, by wayof my hummingbird … Continue reading This Thing Called Sex by Dale Champlin
When our affair endedthe bed, the linens, the pillows witheredtaking our shrill moans with them.Even the dust on the carpet was still, so quietand threadbare—gray where vibrant plush used to be.I hated to see the wreckageand I hated to see the termination of our lust.I hated to see us go. At the beginningthe weather was good, I remember.We watched spring birds sing their hearts outcarnal … Continue reading The End by Dale Champlin
My lover is walled into silence. I used to sit by the trash cans in my back alley smoking a joint while no one was looking. I called it desperation. My silence was all-consuming—too early pregnant—looking at gravel in the potholes back there and the neighbor’s dog wiggling and whining for a cuddle. Can you imagine? I wanted to swallow the back gate, the garage, … Continue reading Pregnant and Screaming by Dale Champlin
-after “I want to sleep with you elbow to elbow” by Joyce Mansour (translated by Emilie Moorhouse) I want to lie naked with my headtucked in the curve of your neckour hair braided like a riveryour hand on my assand my toes in the crook of your knee.I want to recline with your sexclutched between my thighssweating like a tall beerblissed-out as wild strawberries.I want … Continue reading I Want to Grab You by Your Short and Curlies by Dale Champlin
The only thing dead is my right arm—limp as a stunned mackerel washed up by the surf.I can see the fish is still attached to my shoulder.How weird is that? I can’t grasp the word for stroke. Nothing makes sense. I forget about breakfast,forget I should be hungry but don’t forgetto apply lipstick and sunblock. I’m not close to dead.Not even dying. In the ambulance, … Continue reading After the Stroke by Dale Champlin
I admit I love beauty—is there anything more splendidthan an open casket? See how the corpse is laid out in finery—all pink satin and serenity. Noticethe carefully applied makeup, ladylike— unlike anything that went before.The departed soul might flit—moth-delicate in candlelight. Bouquets burgeon down either sideof the aisle—trumpet-shaped vasesgleam lustered, golden and glossy at the end of each pew—a dusting of roses, lilies and baby’s-breaththe … Continue reading Briefly Rapturous by Dale Champlin
What is so mesmerizing about a quarter inch of beer?It’s more than I might want but a binge for a fruit fly. One-by-one they muscle up to the bar take a sip,list off the barstool dead drunk then just dead. And yet— body floating, wings askew, each one takes a little tipple before the big sleep. The saloon’s amber walls rise slick and slippery.None of the fruit flies trust their wings. Continue reading Buzz Kill by Dale Champlin
