For the Love of Perfect Toast
This is my toaster: 160 square inches
sheathed in chrome, named Lori
after its inscription—not my name,
the name of the woman who peddled
the toaster, six pairs of men’s slacks,
a Gillette razor, and her wedding ring
at the neighborhood block sale.
25 cents; she gave me the puzzle free.
The crumb tray is jammed, crooked—
scatters crumbs from counter to floor
if the toaster is moved, catches enough
to smoke the apartment if the toaster
isn’t shaken empty. I was maraca-ing
over the kitchen sink the afternoon
Guy kissed a woman from his jeep
to our doorstep, looked up, saw me.
Perfect toast takes one and a quarter
times through—these settings are broken,
or the coils are, but the toaster browns
bread exactly the same no matter where
the knob points. Lori did warn me
the toast must be turned after the first round,
must be watched more carefully
than shirt collars after late-running meetings.
Postcard from Vegas
Dear Mum—You remember Guy, my co-
worker, the one who went skydiving the day
his mother died? Yesterday our panel ended
early; we spent the evening in the casino,
where he laughed at how carefully I placed
my chips. He pointed at a mirror—Look
at 061. It could change your life forever.
I’m all in. Are you? Oh, Mum!
It does—I was—I did—!
First Thaw
The icicles that barred our windows break
this afternoon, each shattering against
the porch. We emerge, survey the damage, bask
in the sun that’s crept back into our sky
minutes at a time, near unnoticed. The paint
is lighter now, peeling where the ice found
cracks and settled for the winter. The ground’s
half frozen but we clamber through the drifts
that linger in the garden, taking note
of which saplings survived the frequent storms.
The roads are thick with gravel we laid down
each morning, the ditches thick with sludge
the melting snow carries off. We list
the supplies we need, separate what we
can fix today from plantings that require
a deeper thaw than this. Winter leaves signs
of its passing, but here: a hint of green.
Mind, Spinning
Mind cards the day away,
his fingers spindling thread
while he stares at warp and weft
of picket fences, window panes.
Mind watches parents slather lotion
thick across their children’s shoulders.
He stinks of lanolin, no matter
how he washes. The children shuttle
across the street, between homes and park.
They sit along the river, braiding grass
or weaving cornhusk mats for games.
Mind struggles with his fleece,
picking out the dirt and grass from wool
for winter blankets. Heavy thread
spools beneath his hands, but Mind’s fingers
itch to spin stones across the river.
First Sight
A god, is he? That man standing there,
mapping the constellation of your breasts?
Does he say your gravity makes you
irresistible? Does he call you a sun
too bright to look upon? Listen—it’s true
your laughter sears, our skin peels
when you glance at us. Baby, I could say
infinite. I could say asteroids, collision,
shattering. I’ve charted that path, too.
Satellite skimming your horizon. Fuck him.
The stars will still be there tomorrow.
Tonight—I’ve got my bike. Let’s stake
the highway, claim Hatcher’s Pass,
pan for gold. We’ll build a fire by the river;
you can teach me what it is to burn.
Catullus 51