Susan Lewis

(as Nature needs luck

to reap refinement from loss).

The other man knows things he can’t remember.

The other woman reads eye contact like sex—

(or a bird which rolls rival eggs

in water & sand).

The other man is learning how to purr.

The other woman’s skin soothes like chocolate—

(while joy, that quantum devil,

is reached with slack hands & closed lids).

The other man hoards anomie in case he needs it.

The other woman imbibes a book of yesterdays—

(while powerful & powerless

speak one private language).

The other man stores sorrow like riches.

The other woman keeps patience to herself.

R A T T L E S N A K E   ( L U C K Y   S T R I K E )

That is, any code you feel

driven to decipher—

these rocks like stepping stones

for your leggy imagination,

their overbites mouthing

the needy & the secretive.

When the snow melts,

your opinion of me rises.

Later your regard dries up

and I am left with the hot, dry rocks

and their sibylline, hot-cold,

juiced-up tenants.

You want me to know

they carry pearls in their cheeks.

You want me know

I carry moons behind my eyes,

like anyone, like everyone

who wants to tease

vehemence from venom.

Now there are places I must explore.

There are scales to stroke,

despite the probabilities.