The Rose Grew Round the Briar
How do your red pubic hairs
end up on the window sill,
my black ones on the crown moldings?
Do you do even weirder things in the bathroom
than I thought? Do curly hairs waft on
hot-air currents from bathroom drain to ceiling?
Do they hitch a ride on a bath towel,
and flip free heavenward
when you snap it at my ass?
I found one in the pantry, curled lasciviously
around a piece of high-fiber cereal,
another on the TV remote.
I don’t want to think about that one too hard.
I lie in bed and stare at two high on the wall
above our heads, a black and a red.
Are they having an out-of-booty experience?
When we die, will they form a true-lover’s knot,
and float up higher and higher?
Pretty, Wild
I felt my DNA unscrew
when she walked into a room.
I think it was her hair,
Farrah Fawcett seventies wild
like polished mahogany driftwood.
Maybe it was the way
her smile spread slowly
across her face
while her eyes stayed amber,
deep as fossils.
It could have been her shelf
of Russian books,
how she could wire anything
to work, her mastery of
electricity and men.
I wanted to hold open doors,
push her up against the wall,
earn a living for her and her wiener dog,
hold her wrists down on the bed,
dance at our wedding.
Instead I showered so long
her wallpaper curled off the walls.
I kicked the dog out of our bed.
I brought her tidbits
she yelled we couldn’t afford.
I hope she’s happy once again.
I hope she’s still pretty,
her hair still wild,
and she still treats her dog
as if it’s her child.
My Jericho
One good blow job
and you came
tumbling down.
Dance of the Perseids
Meteor shower tonight. No use looking.
Couldn’t see it here against the city glow.
One August in the mountains, his arm
around her, they wished on falling stars
till they ran out of wishes.
Cat’s on top of the TV ‘cause it’s warm,
tail hanging over the screen.
Push his tail up, sit down –
few minutes later that tail falls back,
blocking So You Think You Can Dance.
He knew he could dance when he twirled her
with a light touch of his hand,
turn of the wrist. She spun into him,
spooled out again like a spindle.
She’s gone.
All he hears
is Vietnamese cuties upstairs
playing Dance Dance Revolution
thundering over his head
like to knock the plaster down.
Why should he crack his own ceiling
pounding with his Louisville Slugger?
Baseball days are all past, too.
Just him and her ancient crazed kitty
that yowls all night.
Fix himself Cheez Whiz on Cheetos.
Push the cat’s tail up again.
Ease onto the La-Z-Boy.
Not too long till his love and he
will be Dancing with the Stars.
Jan Steckel’s fiction chapbook Mixing Tracks, was the winner of the 2008 Gertrude Press Fiction Chapbook Award. Her work has won numerous awards and has been nominated twice for a Pushcart Prize. Find out more at http://www.jansteckel.com
