Catherine Daly's first book, DaDaDa, a trilogy, was published by Salt Publishing
in the UK in 2003. Tupelo Press in the U.S. will publish her second book, Locket,
a book of love poems, in Nov 2004. She lives in Los Angeles. A poem about a
weekend she spent in Hong Kong, "Chinese Wedding," is online at Streetnotes.

No Consort: Love

I was tired, you were tired.
We went to a resort.
We dreamed
and said to the dream:
deliver your report.
(Ours is a love awkward
to sort
from junk mail, spam.
Viagra. Penis enlargement. XXX girls.
Cheap Term Life.)
The dream made some claim.
That's what we don't need: security,
more safety pins that arrive in the dry cleaning,
more rubber bands from the newspaper.

No Conjunction: Love

It is propitious
to use verbs in many forms.
That makes us tense,
less timeless (we're
not frozen outside of hours).
Love explains, plus
plus, and, but
why we do it, tell,
remains inexplicable.

Love Oliver!

I love the orphans' icy kicking.
They drown in the Thames like kittens.

They reach around my waist,
moving hands into my pockets
and out with change.

She coughed.
The poor scrap she had for a handkerchief
was stained blood red (with blood).

Not knowing none of us could do more
than skim or scan these verses,
ignorant, we didn't dream.
We can survive in the workhouse.

Love: Bomb and Bombshell

I've made up a lounge lizard persona.
I think that's what he is - it's not the name,
it's the jacket he's wearing, it's the way
he says his name - but he doesn't.

He observes our love, our history,
his grip on his cosmopolitan tightening,
his vantage of the Hammond, the Moog,
filtered through mood lighting.

Over the vibes, does he see us, the Bomb
and Bombshell? The ones with gimlet eyes
like little elves?

Love, Neither Spirit nor Angel

My impulse is never to create a figure
of love, a spirit of spirit, an angel
of love, angel of spirit, spirit of angels,

a whole imaginary mess to make seem physical
a whole imaginary mess to make sensual what already is:

you can kneel or I can,
I touch your lips, and you, mine,
we write all day and your words
aren't in your mouth, and are, and are mine,
in my mouth, not not not divine.

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