Jen Tynes



Romancing the Starrights

Then the Starright twins came in, all laced and hard
of hearing--their corduroy jackets
split against the folds with my lips
in the backs of yellow
or black checkered cabs, of chrome and orange vinyl 
bar stools, of knees sweating even
when the wind changes directions, lazy 
eyes asking for just one more 
bend. Sometimes they are Margaret 

and Imogene and sometimes they are men--
the former, darted-gingham eyes and breast
plates, old bartenders with piss-yellow index
fingers burning tight; the latter deftly
dumb aggravators of the farm
commission, velcro tennis shoes split over
toes that curl too often, smallest finger tuna-laden
to feed stray cats like second wives, that keep
sucking and biting and gone. When we kiss 

all the cheeks and jawbones
get confused, turning late for the whistle
of a forgotten lead teapot set flush
on the stove's eye. Sometimes the Starrights' flush is all
I want to remember, the way it stood taut
against both sides of my window screen, the first
time we saw the hay balers float by. The sun
set early for once, leaving us
to imagine this is how moths feel, come
September, just some wings stuck between their teeth.



not train

late one night two years before
                      the second
his spine was cauterized for, my mother & i
barred the door with an aluminum curtain rod
     and dreamt its bending prongs
so completely we had to move:

                                it is a reckless hand that smashes
                                sparrows' nests, because they think
                                the hatching season is over, and it is
                                even a reckless hand with the sordid
                                nests of crows

:falling apart around you

:was divined, why didn't we think of it before?

the bearing snap, the obtuse engine, the
startled notion to purr.