
published by Retort Magazine, on July 19th, 2011
Rust
Dear Evee, my love for you, was fake and invented
just like this poem masquerading as a letter.
You do not do any more, We were
a white tennis shoe in which I lived
like a toe, able to move but trapped
to your foot, afraid to speak or breathe.
Today, my neighbor tossed a nail ridden
tire on his greasy green lawn, and then I knew it was
your beauty that kept me inside the tennis shoe.
I think beauty binds as well as a deflated
tire secures a wheel, and love strains to inflate
and fill this gap between rim and rubber.
Nothing not even love is permanent.
Nails and rust prove this so, as well as
the uselessness of beauty, without love
to support it. Beauty is a rim coated in speckled rust
like blotches of dull red paint on a gray wall
kept complete by a leaking tire once full of love’s air.
