Poetry

Steadfast and serene amidst the camera’s
fevered strikes of lightening,

the bride and groom figurine atop
their conquered glacier cake

offers a lesson in stability. Commitment
involves standing your ground.

Neither shivers with doubt.
They gaze outward at the world,

not eye-locked upon each other.
They simply loop arms to become one.

Anybody can be jealous of the life span
of sturdy plastic. Nothing will break them

apart but a hard whack from a strong
blade. Even lighting them afire would

only meld them into a single, swirling pool.
Such fantasies of destruction come

as anguished follow-up from the same
mind that urges them on, dynamic

duo in their super-hero costumes
of black and white, the colors

of all or nothing at all, which they
wisely never remove for mere mortal

wear: a jumbo T-shirt or other
sacks of aesthetic, romantic indifference.

A white plate is similar to a white tooth
in that the same bad luck may befall it:

scratches, stains, chips, breaks.
It’s cheaper though to replace a white plate.

A black tooth is not at all like a black plate.
The latter is hip. The other is not,

especially in the front. A black tooth
was born white, then became black.

You can’t say the same about plates,
or too much else. Why is a police car both

black and white? A hot fudge sundae?
Yes, they both have a bit of red on top.

We’ll return to red in a bit.
I don’t see dark brown as really black.

Beige is more light brown than lily white.
Someone may turn white as a ghost

but never white as a plate. So why
are ghosts white? To see them in the dark?

Turning white is a loss of red, of blood,
like the dead. A brown woman pales

as a white plate flies mysteriously
off the shelf, assaulting her

with a blackening eye saucer
and front tooth to follow. Over her brow

at the point of impact, a silent siren
unrolls its hot, red ribbons.