Annie's Room

    I wanted to sleep in the attic,
    in the special room where Annie
    once slept under the eaves;
    Annie long-gone into war factories
    south of the tracks.

    My mother said no,
    because of fire she said,
    so I practiced crawling out
    the small window
    onto the slanted roof, calculated
    the leap to the chestnut tree.

    I wanted to be near my father.
    He was stored in boxes
    in the tower room: his books,
    sermons, black robe, his clarinet
    with silver bands, silver keys

    and in a corner, the gilded bust
    my mother made. surreal,
    the mask of a missing man,
    missing arms, shoulders,
    missing heart.


    Giving Good Hugs

    There are hugs that bruise along my curves
    like vinyl too hot in a red summer afternoon.

    and hugs that run out of edges
    until they are not a proper embrace,
    just a limp, polite, air-kiss of arms.

    I like enough pressure
    to know the person giving

    the hug that settles in
    and never cools until that moment
    when all the grandness
    has been sucked out of it

    by both the hugger and hugged
    and which has long been muddied;
    the hug comes to a natural end
    and each pulls back replete with it.

    Then the afterhug - a magnet
    of surprise when the space between
    the huggers hurts
    with the pull of separating

    and like electricity leaps
    to the approaching plug needing
    to make the connection - we hug again
    just lean back into it
    this one low and comfortable,

    this one full of the acquaintance
    of my body into yours, letting flesh
    and muscle settle into give and take places
    against each other.


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