Movements of the Body
Divided Tongues
Movements of the Body
A world, a green shaded lamp, glowing
as an internal structure of text,
delights in the tongue-slip of words,
explains that the particular conditions of women
have no logic, no material, and because of that
in the dark with the moon drenched
outside his door, a tiny narcissus
pushes off from the underside of water.
The implication is that in language
there is no connection between us,
our provocative glimpse of shared meaning
faces the harbor, a ruined palace.
We are connected by telephone.
Until now, you have not been speaking.
Divided Tongues
Rehearse, if you will. Eat slowly. I mean,
mangez lentement. Where was the meal
that you mentioned? I am learning to cook.
Did I recite “I am a saint and a drifter?”
Ceci ne rend pas le bouillon amer.
Not unintelligent or unthinkable. I dreamt
of Alpaca. At the front door. It was neither turkey
bones nor eating. It was yesterday. Its eyes
were sentient and disturbing. I felt a draft.
“There is nothing to chew because if it were chewed
it would be chewed over.”
I am learning to boil potatoes. You
are cooking in French. Une tasse
d’aubergine coupée. A knife kissing a fork.
We smile. You are radiant.
You hate to swallow what I have eaten.
The female child was gifted. She had no choice.
Avez-vous mangé la corneille noire?
We have forgotten our reason for living
by the kitchen window (a question of manners.)
Jim Benz lives in Minneapolis MN with his wife, two cats, and a dog. His poems have appeared in a variety of print and online journals, including (most recently) Daily Haiku, DIAGRAM, Caper Literary Journal, and Blackbox Manifold.
