Katy Curtz Graham, MA poet

I will be honest now

There were three shoes on the corner of ice and wry.
One had hammered copper heels the shape of summer.
One had such big hips I nearly bumped off the mailman.
Really what I wanted to say darling was nothing at all
Happened today. I thought of when you were young and
Frightening, with blue eyes I had no reason to look much
Into. Your hand never sweats, I should know, you have
Held mine in it while you licked ice shavings from
The shelf of innocence or sniffed the wood siding. Your
Hand is closed in a fist on the placemat. You have not
Picked up your fork yet. If you looked in my
Eyes right now they would cash a cheque.

 

 

I will lie if I must
A scape of sand and cake full of lizards
And dying stuff had cacti the size of camels
And camels the size of factories and I still
Smelled your neck. Are you at the filling station?
With a look on your face like doing crossword
puzzles? Are you at the hotel leant back?
Into the greased headboard like it was
Baby’s breath? Let me breathe once
More. I don’t care if we both get arrested.
Your arms, my nose–nobody will be able
To tell which! Those hares had been
Shadows in a rough sketch. Why then
Shouldn’t we?

 

 

Katy Curtz is a Mass author with essays published in small mags like Brick Wall, Gorget, Dress Shirt and others like them. She began writing poetry in 2013.

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