h o m e........

p a s t   i s s u e s....

s u b m i s s i o n s....

l i n k s

SARAH SARAI

COMMERCE FOR THE GOOD OF THE PEOPLES

At the shop of good moral character
you bought five grams of valor and 
a strong chin

For your love, essence of steadfast heart
in a vial

Good gosh, that's pricey stuff

You speculated over glasses
Horn of Africa-rimmed so you could
spot a swarthy pirate, yo-ho

For your love you thought, Titanium frames!
because

You passed on the steady gaze for its claim on
concentration 
There's only so much 
good moral character a person can stand
in a day 

You and your love pledged to
utilize purchases
soon as you were home and
would have but for a stop 
for wines and tidbits,
brandy and later a few tokes
from that joint
in the car ashtray

Anyway 
your love left her steadfast heart
in the Audi whilst the cat ate
your strong chin (at least you
brought your purchase into the house)

You and your love split the valor
Everything's better with two forks and whipped cream

YOU ARE THE CONFUSING IDENTITY I WRITE FOR

You are the first line of this poem. 
You are an opening gambit,
perplexity, a variable concept of relativity 
space and time 
in which this poem (you) exists.

This poem exists to be you.  You, the woman I write for.
You're a man?
That's a wig?  You are a man in a wig and, yes!
you are here! in this poem.
You are a conundrum and sparkling wine,
a Gewurztraminer or
cider with bubbles and no booze.
    
They say art enlightens. 
Between you and me?
It might as well be a sleep mask.
Light rents space for its morning stretch.
This poem asked me to let out its seams.  

You are the first and second lines of the final stanza and
you know why?
I'm hungry.  
I'll always treasure our moments together.
Reader, if you were a seam, I'd take you out anywhere.

Never allow Greeks near your conjuring.
The cult of primordial Nyx,

aboriginal goddess of chiffon,
foremother to tricked and tricking 

Hera   Aphrodite   Athena—that crew
—hissed at my augur of  

feline elemental mists
geographies of soul and taffeta. 

On the way to the gallery I conjured  
(cut grass   the levitating sun)
 
(a tangerine id peeled for juice and pulp
by a woman's ten pads and rubbed

by her heavy books of life).  I conjured
satin   a personal trainer   faint morning stars.

Goddesses wreak easy havoc with enchantment,
a garment flattering to only a few.