Poems by L Scully
what i know
in another life
we chew grass.
you smile –
green teeth –
old sun.
what I’ve learned
there’s dust on the deck today,
leftover by a leafblower-for-hire.
asked to record his transgressions,
I nod. yes, there is dust everywhere.
floorboards, railing, pages of notes.
somehow it seems so offensive,
how dare someone else’s dust
end up on my things?
I sweep and stay organized
like good people do.
you could lick your finger, run
it along the railing to find
an almost surprising absence
of dust. not today, there are specks
even in the porch lights.
I’m advised to take photos and
send them to the owner of the
house next door. hey!
your dust is touching my dust.
the landscaper’s technique is an affront
to my manicured deck. no doubt about it.
I heard about dust once, maybe
you know what I’m talking about.
maybe you’re cleaning up
your neighbor’s mess.
I thought about taking the pictures
as requested, but something stopped me.
I saw you smiling in the ash.
mutual mutilation
In western hospitals they repackage
Buddhism, call it Dialectical.
Euthanize therapy dogs, call it old age.
Everything is the calling of something else.
I watched The Piano Teacher and felt sex.
Sometimes the only thing to feel is sex.
Disrupt my spiritual ecosystem.
Stop making me beg. I am the chooser.
God only emerges between two people
mistreated the same way. Familiarity.
I walk the middle path on bathroom tile,
recycle heaven, fuck for both of us.
I do everything for two people.
Floor is cold. Some days it’s almost enough.