Mark DUCHARME









Totem


after Joan Harvey

I met a man who knew
A makeshift way of wanting to be known
He told me I was pregnant
Which is funny, because that's how I thought about miniature golf

He gave me pornographic drawings
Filterless Greek cigarettes
He kissed his shiny, black eyes
But I didn't see myself that way

I turned into some other kind of creature
Rocking inside, honey-drenched
Melody darkened my brain
A makeshift way of wanting to be known

Sex was a series of waves
A bracelet heavy with tourmaline
I like to think of myself as a lion
Or else, some kind of bird that cries











Imperfect World


To be a part
Of the treetops & furnaces
Where the only air to breathe is
Here—& we are

Stilled along the
Way, to where
It is, we are going. Where is it, we
Are going

Anymore? Only to where
In a moment, I'll reappear
Ambiguous & startling
In your hair, replete, where I do not

See
You at all, or ever—or if I did
I would soon be about to go
Away. Imagine

A place where these worlds
May occur, or soon become forever
One of the laptop girls, sauntering & staring
Into pale cafés at 2 p.m.

Replete with air, but not enough
To eat—
Else I use the air, these
Stars, to build

A place to gather
You up in.









To Next


The package is statutory
I could be without one where we shackle
Up conventional decibels
Of your ancient criterion

To be intermittently moot until reply
While scurrying through charmed
Circles & folk
Festivals, the most-likely-to-pick-up-a-copy

Of my next book, in your head
Though subject to flippant singalongs
Role reversals, & the color silver
I still haven't erased that message

Announcing what we almost took
At summer, which continues to extend
The length between touch & collision
Though it's doubtful that I'll call





 





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