Two Poems by Jen Currin

Salad for Two

This is a deck of cards

for non-believers just like you.

For stationery typers

& architects who dance

while drawing.

Someone is a mouse or wants

to make a famous poem.

A mousy poem, a little bit like

your cousin with that color of hair.

Someone was born a mouse

& grew up to be a rat.

Now she lives in the moon,

chews it every day.

Aghast you should suggest

she's a ghost--& why 

you need death

to feel empathy.

Feel anything--sand

in the lettuce, string of celery

between your teeth.

A bewildering rage,

a list of flower seeds you hope to buy.

A little arrow of bad thought

is sent out to the President.

Can't snatch it back.

Next week my letter will be better.

Beggar’s Ocean

Always different, a sea

unstacked, dwelling rivery

& death-afraid,

wrapping myself in morning's curtains.

A lamppost bends its head

over a car--are you asleep?

Bewildered each morning

awakening from dreams of red woods

neighbours who didn't move

others who open night

like a velvet dress.

We are not the moon

or fog visiting a dead uncle.

The street is a usual place.

Some are lonesome 

& sneak out of class early.

Some are loathsome

& why can't we forget their names.

A few of us are glass, just glass.

Death comes even in comical forms,

the crow strutting

the balcony balustrade, stopping

to give you a stare-down.

Hummingbird just for a second--

did she hear our voices?

Sugar-plump, not anxious--

she always moves

at this speed.

A voice on the phone

echoes

underground.

Here in the woods

I am consistently

on fire. Silver

& gold

have I none.