Colleen McKee
Poetry
by
Colleen McKee
Nowy Swiat
Because of my vague belief that showing up matters,
I showed up, even though I could not hope
for peace. So I stood around at the rally;
the cold mist scratched my skin. I was numb
from the neverending war,
listening to three speeches
I'd heard three times before.
I sighed, and wrung my hands,
slunk home, and ran a bath.
I lit a pair of crimson candles,
placed them on the porcelain rim.
I wasn't really praying, only aiming
not to feel defeat.
I stared into the water,
my skin licked red by steam.
It's strange, I think of Warszawa
every time I bathe,
it snowing there in May,
and only weak cold water
sputtering from the nozzle,
all radiators rusted shut,
and sleeping in two coats,
and slate-faced women, stoically
selling tulips in the snowy rain
from little white buckets, on Mother's Day
in the corner of Nowy Swiat, named
for the new, new world.
Dream of the Enchanted Supermarket
Oranges fling themselves from their bins in-
to orbit around me, bright leath'ry stars
round my startled axis, quickly spinning
into constellations, Technicolor.
And sheaves, dozens, of stargazer lilies
leaping from buckets into my basket.
They're white, finely lined in Schiaparelli
pink, landing with great rattle and racket.
And cherries also take flight from crates, black
as garnets, as tend'rest, darkest bruises,
their skins so tight, so marvelously packed
with life. They hover, nonchalantly cruise
round my cart. They fall in. The checkers say,
Hon, it's all free. Put that money away.
The Calligrapher
How is it that my three years with you
have become nothing more
than a collection of stories-
a stack of slips of paper, neatly folded,
sealed with wax, tied
with an old blue thread,
so loose the questions, skeins of texts,
and labyrinthine trails of plot
slip out sometimes and fly about
like paper cranes, softly knocking,
rasping round the edges of my skull?
I remember the notes you used to write, your careful
calligraphy, hooked
and barbed. Your favorite book
was a book
of matches-
you liked to burn the edges of each page
with artificial age.
It was as if to say
that the moral of the story, every story
is the same:
The moral of the story
is in the story's end.
The moral of the story
is that
the stories end.
The Coffee Cake
I would say that I covet
my neighbor's wife, if only it seemed
she belonged to him, if only
they matched, like salt and pepper shakers,
like something so obviously.domestic.
But look at them-she's short, he's tall,
she's fair, he's dark.
OK. So they match.
I watch them cross the threshold
of their door, everyday,
shivering close and holding hands,
cold breath balloons
of bright conversation
rising from their chapped and rosy lips.
and then there is the key-
that key I covet also-twisting
in the lock.
I know what they talk about, because
they are my friends. We all have wine
on Friday nights, we grouse
about our jobs, we talk about
the things we've read, what's in the news; it's nice.
And then I cross the alley, and then they go
to bed. But she is
my best friend. And there are spots of time,
spots of tea, with her alone-
kitchen time, I call it-
scattered throughout the week. It's just enough
to string me through, to stitch me through
those seven days.
We tear off buttery crumbs
of streusel cake, we roll them into spheres,
sugary worlds
of conversation
Her green eyes wander up the walls
as she recalls
just what it was
that her husband said,
as my eyes fix upon her mouth
to some forgotten crumb.
One day is different. She is sad.
She wants to talk, she says,
but never mentions why.
She picks at coffee streusel,
she pinches at her cuffs, and then
she's kissing me, an awkward, funny kiss,
just barely licks my lips.
Then she jumps back, like a rabbit,
stands against the sink,
and stares at me. My heart
is clattering in its cage of ribs
like a grasshopper, caught
in a glass
The Red Silk Slip
Yes, I know about the worms,
plucked mercilessly from the mulberry trees,
and I know about the women
whose fingers are worked
til they're only bone and callus
just so I can have
these tailored skeins of heaven.
It's the red of an empress
with a brand-new plan.
The shimmering vermilion
of a desperate mirage.
I wear it like the gift it was,
the gift that I had to have.
I wear it from one grateful lover
to the next, like some
unremorseful Judas.
Silently I thank each one
for never asking, So,
where did this come from?
For it is so obviously expensive,
the very incarnation of opulence,
the rich scarlet
of a wayward cardinal,
the boldest hue
of defiance.
But no one asks, they just admire
the way it moves like water,
responsive
to my every breath.
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