Reb Livingston is a poet and jewelry designer residing in the greater
Washington, D.C. area. Her poems have appeared recently or are
forthcoming in Drunken Boat, DUCKY, Unpleasant Event Schedule,
5 AM, LIT, Good Foot and Pip Lit. She edits No Tell Motel.
Maybe I'm impressed by church light.
Split pews didn't part the Red sea
--neither did diagonal stripes or rubbing shoulders.
When I say "impressed" I'm not talking penis, so
put it back in your pocket, those slithering slacks that
make me wonder if you've started working out.
This is about art, being over it and being good.
That's what I came for. I'm so over it.
See God. See Moon. See Conifer. Over.
--But all this stained glass, the bright shades pined against night
sure, come hither, the man in the tower
just stepped out for juice and right now I
sense a potent sparkle from your beacon.
I'm talking literal, I truly believe you're a ship
full of tiny wisps waving shiny lighters
Cruise liner, tug boat, sinking barge of coal,
what do I know?
Hurry, before I require downfall.
Careful, those rocks are sharp!
Only in the sense the sky is
popular with the working ladies
can the mama's boy
separate the ying from
the egg yolk and I see him
no more a victim any more
than the non-flosser
sentenced to his root canals.
I don't know David McDonald's
oral hygiene habits but I
appreciate the literary
articles he mails to me and
I wouldn't characterize him
as a mama's boy but he
is a victim to his
twelve year-old-daughter Kate's
love and attention which is how
most father/daughter dynamics
seem to work but I doubt many
fathers see themselves as victims
to daughterly powers and I doubt
when they sense the sky
with their little lordesses
it turns into a competition
of name the symbol
the moon sliver represents
like it did that Vermont
June night with David,
P.F. and myself
the three of us rushing
to find the moon's nakedness
a finger nail, a bra's underwire,
Van Gogh's ridiculous ear.
Much We Could Do
for Anthony Robinson
What's even worse
are those folks who ignore and
abuse us while pretending to
dote on and adore us
make us their pasty white gravy
never taking a biscuit.
Oh, they'll show us their lipsticks
remind us how their hands
separate the person from the body
slip the trinkets out our pockets.
There's much we could do
if we wanted to forget.
We could ride buses and collect transfers.
We could make charts, predict our next
bland predicaments, our laments.
We could smell like beer and
never leave the upstairs.
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