William Talcott (Thumbscrew@aol.com), well-known Bay area poet,
frequent contributor and subscriber to RealPoetik, is also offering a
copy of his chapbook, _Benita's Book_, in listserv archive format
(that is, email). Send email to listserv@listserv.wln.com with a
single line of text reading: get rpoetik benitas.book




Fever Dream

The darkness of a great
free to be hungry in
evening when swallows
and bats suck mud
from the barns's eyes
and the twilight's empty
spaces break to shapes
of greasy nothing.

That's the time angels
dream of a pleasure
that comes from not eating
too much before love.

Sometimes it helps
to sweat. Then sweat
you say. In this way
lunch is decided.

The couple
sits next to us
side by side. Her leg
slides over his.
She smiles. I look up
pillows and their modes
of speech in my
big books. Do bed
clothes have
memories? Mine do.

I have captured
the songs of early
morning and sent them
your way in a letter.

When we love a fine
dust settles over me
as in the pulverization
of Sarajevo and marked
by the footprints
of feral cats.

I've been sick
for a month
and artillery
rings wild
bells in the sky.






My Eyes Reflect a Waterfall

of fog that greets the first
wild ducks of fall. We've parted
for the day and I'm doing
what we'd be doing if we hadn't.
The first wild ducks of fall
are on the lake, heading south
or maybe here to stay a while.
A tree-sized patch of fog
floats by. The sky
above the island hill is low
and uniformly white.
I'll go there in a bit
and lose my eyes
which spent the afternoon
so full of you.





Oysters

As I walk home
the crescent feels warm
and lazy in the sky.
To kiss the mouth

that gives birth
to the voice I love to hear:
after two hours with you
I need oysters!

So I go back to P.J.'s
where you dined last week
an hour before I did.
I look for you anyway

but you've gone skiing
at Squaw and me, I'm always
late. So I slurp the oysters
and spit out the pearls

except for yours
which I honored
with my best attentions
only a few hours ago.


What Remains

I want to be
freeze-dried, pounded
with a pestle. Keep
what remains in the green
canister, the one you use

for basmati rice.
Put part of me in the pepper
grinder. Mix me in a little
at a time. That way
I become part of you

for at least seven years.
I'll become part of future
lovers invited to dinner.
Their sense of humor
may change. You'll like that.

When I'm used up, that's okay.
I'll always be there for you
in the smell of fresh
ground pepper.

***


Recipe for a Pleasant Afternoon

Remove outer skin and wash.
Test with fingers for firmness
and response. Cook slowly
lowering and raising temperature
until moist. Add stuffing.
Keep hot over continuous flame
till ready to serve.
Spread on bed of woven
vegetables and cover
with whatever fancies you.
This is a traditional dish
but variations are endless.
Serves two.










Mindless Again

"I have to return these,"
she said, taking the house
keys from her purse. If he
hasn't left by now, I don't
think he will."

Three days later we go for
coffee. Walking down New
Montgomery past the Palace
she turns, "I'm still
in love with you, you know."
"Me too."
"I still want your kiss
and make love to you."
"Me too."
"But when I feel this way at
home, it makes a distance".
"When you're making love?"
"No, that's the same as always.
Other times. If he knew I felt
this way, I think he'd kill me."
"Has he said so?"
"Yes."

We sit by the grass at Yerba
Buena Gardens, face to face,
touching accidentally
pulling back as we chat.
The clock in some church
strikes five. "We have to
get back now," someone says
as we lean toward each other,
her lower lip so ripe,
the upper full and carved
like a goddess's. Our tongues
entwine gently as our mouths
nibble as though we had broken
some fast but couldn't give
in to hunger. A gasp fills
my ears, and it ends.

I'm leaving for Europe Tuesday.
We're on for lunch Monday.
"What kind of lunch did you
have in mind?" she asks.


William Talcott

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