by Jared Pearce
It is possible only to love a stinking thing.
For years I had no suspicion women broke
Wind. I never thought she pressures, she
Crimps and struggles to escape. Rather,
It seemed every one a cosmic princess,
An alcove of lush gardens, broadening
The jetties of their arms,
The tranquilities of their lakes.
But love removes the shining wings,
The feathered skin, the crystal caves,
And shines its heat on the deep, dark pools
To waste away where secrets shade.
Now when she crashes the car or burns
The cake, love roots in me like an eel
Burrowed in slime, or a buzzard on the make
For decay. When she raises a stink,
Her gaseous image hardens until her face
Breaks my dream and casts its net, stopping
The bottle of my wandering,
Commanding me to her wish.
Jared Pearce(We’ve got to fix the problem, not the symptom, Safe & Warm, and We were perfect when we started) Some of Jared Pearce’s poems have recently been or will soon be shared in J Journal, Linden Avenue, DIAGRAM, MUSE, and Life & Legends. He lives in Iowa.