Monday, August 25, 2014

Boblo poem in anthology

My poem "Boblo" appeared in Whisky Sour City (Black Moss Press, 2013). Just getting around to posting it now. The link to buy the anthology is http://blackmosspress.com/dd-product/whiskey-sour-city/ Of course, it can be bought through Amazon or Indigo, if one so desires.

Publisher's description:
"Sex, love, alcohol and pollution are on tap within these pages. Whisky Sour City is a collection of poetry written by people who have experienced both the sour and the sweet of Windsor, Ontario."



Boblo

 
Rumor has it the island is cursed,
the owners gone bankrupt and then swiftly struck dead.

Of that, I cannot say, but what I do know
is the French fries are small pellets that swell when immersed in oil,

the woman supposed to be running the carousel swings
is down at the docks fucking a rich American,

and my boozy boss keeps offering me shots of vodka. 
He wants me drunk for all the usual reasons, but I never do.

After many slurred lures, I unlock my ten-speed and pedal home.
Desire—that cagey, crazy-making thing

I never understood—eventually takes hold.
Like Bacchus or Baudelaire or the carousel swings girl,

I soon became aware of appetites that were longingly hard
to fulfil. I slip into the borders, the paradoxes

of casual intimacy, of melancholic passion.
Rumour has it I am cursed. The kind of woman

you treat well for a short time, the kind you want
your buddy to hook-up with after his girlfriend dumps him.

Of that, I cannot say, but what I do know
is I get a lot of free drinks when I never ask for them,

that certain men expect they will take me home
when we flirt all night. I never do when they are sure of it.

I wear silk lingerie at night, my chest and neck bloom
with heat. It is summer, I sweat the sugar of lemons,

once again walk the silvery sun-drenched platform of the Corkscrew,
drinking lemonade, dumb with heat. Hornets grow furious.

Lilacs wilt. Across the river, fields of corn are scorched.
They will be harvested late this year.