N  a  p a  l  m     H  e  a  l  t  h     S  p  a  :     R  e  p  o  r  t     2  0  0  7

LISA McCOOL

Must’ve Been the Fall When I Met My Husband

I barely noticed him, because the slut in me

could stretch goodbyes taut as banjo strings

watching Dan.  Unrequited lust

occurred to me but I was there to soak my panties.

Rick was cutting lime. What a thoughtful guy

stocking Dan’s fridge, cracking jokes

at all the parties.  I picked at a hole in my jeans

until Dan walked away.  Outside,

someone mentioned Rick’s girlfriend had moved,

left him with the kittens and electric bills.

I remember the porchlight spread around

his shrugging shoulders.  I was dragging my feet

to the car through leaves.  They looked grey

in that weakened darkness. 

Ex-Love Letter

The day after

my first acid trip

I discover an alleyway

full of mulberries

and driftwood and barking dogs.

I know, I know, I know

as I fold plundered bottlecaps

into a makeshift envelope

addressed to you

that the beetles, though dead,

will smash themselves

against the shiniest pieces of blue glass,

that my scraps of poetry

will dust the butterfly's wing

into a naked slice of skeleton,

that you will turn over these broken things

in the slats of light

cutting your bedroom floor

and hold them

in a fist until they crumble.