|Pris Campbell ||My Last Love Poem
Breasts, pendulums; butt, a train wreck,
I'm searching for some swaggering Lothario
to write my last love poem.
He must say thou and thee whenever
possible, pack it with clichéd love phrases.
I won't settle for rambling
about the old days, listing
bad lovers and good,
or describe how many times
we did it, to bored cat and dog.
There must be a John Alden out there,
saving himself just for me.
An ad in the paper may work or
bottles searched near the sea.
Maybe I'll take out a pen and write
that sweet poem, myself.
I'll pin it to my fridge, carve it
into my headstone, so blackbirds
can caw and mourning friends sigh
she was adored to the end
when my body makes love with the worms.
I imagine how it will be, these
twenty long years after the last
crunch of tires over gravel
at my old home, foot reaching
out of the car, flame topped
hedge to my right, lilies still
imitating the sun out back.
I picture my father in his garden,
tending marigolds to stink away bugs
from fresh corn and beans.
Mother, in the kitchen, sweats
over asparagus casserole, fried
chicken, cornbread crisping
gold in the oven. My aunt,
dressed in her best robe,
damaged heart beating faster,
listens for the slap of our car door.
They're here, she cries.
I blink and daydreams mist
into warm Carolina air. Strangers
inhabit this house now, unaware
that they tread in footsteps so casually
erased by that whore bastard time.