Two Poems by Philip Butera

 

As the Aperture Opens Wide

 

No baggage and no contrition.

Unsure,

am I careless or careful?

The mesh of a fishnet boundary

slyly maneuvered.

Tattered edges,

an invitation for bad intentions.

 

Aware,

I am pandering to danger,

like Hermes chasing Melinoe,

I find the distraction

of shimmering images

and

light through

champagne,

more fascinating

than embellished dreams.

 

I welcome the tussle

as the swell matures

and my chin

parts the sweet flesh

of smooth legs.

 

The hourglass reminds us

that causes and cures are clouds in motion.

I am no fool,

I realize pity has its laws.

Yet, there is a spurring curiosity

for contradictions.

An appetite

to hear tolling bells

while pleasure beckons.

 

I love

the lingering scent of perfume,

on inner thighs,

as eyes,

with disapproving approval,

question a thirst never quenched.

 

There is a tiny white stitch

deep within the silky black barrier.

A twilight

never to be reached.

Thoughts gather,

for temptation is but a blindfold

over a threshold

moist with deceptions.

                                                                                   

While Hera sees Aphrodite in her mirror,

I follow the white line.

A pantomime villain disguised as a seducer.

The visual changes,

but the intention remains.

Nakedness opens a world of metaphors

and,

with a cruel delight,

the obvious becomes addictive.

But redemption

is a dark shadow on a forgotten gravestone,

never

charming lines of poetry

applauding dreamy stars.

 

In a world devoid of purpose,

promotional gestures

bring meaning to nonsense.

I regale the fragrance

of an ageless mystery.

Legs become scissors

and I giggle to myself

as the aperture

opens wide.

The Cheek Kiss

 

The phone rings.

It is her,

She asks, "Do you have company?"

I say, "No."

 

The car lights flash in the windows.

The dogs bark.

She is at the door.

I say, "Hi."

 

The cheek kiss.

Awkward moments.

"White wine?" I ask.

"Rum and coke."

I say, "Sure."

 

My heartbeats

seem louder than my voice.

"How are you?" she asks.

I say, "Fine."

 

How does it happen?

Two people who tangled in bed for years,

loved intimately,

kissed passionately,

touched feverishly,

spoke sincerely

now sit across from each other

hoping for wanted forgiveness.

 

Fair skin, big brown eyes, long legs,

and a dress a bit too short, she enters my purgatory.

She whirls my emotions, and the sting reminds me

that I still love her.

I want it to be then- years ago,

with Christmas cheer

and joy punctuated with smiles after every word.

But I know her rehearsed movements,

her impatience with things not in her control.

"You look thinner."

I say, "Really?"

 

She sighs, "Why aren't you out?"

I look deep into her.

Deeper than eyes can penetrate.

Passion is the cruellest emotion.

It's the animal whose jaw never releases its prey.

 

"Why are you here?" I ask.

"I have met someone younger than us.

He's my beautiful indulgence

like you were many years ago when we met.

But I can't let you go.

Once, you said you would die for me.

I need that.

Would you commit suicide?"

 

The clutter of the past means recognizing the familiar.

I turn up the music, sweet jazz, listenable jazz,

jazz, she never quite grasped.

She was a country girl,

quick to memorize lyrics

and expects you to be grateful.

Her perfume lingers,

though she has left.

 

Which is more uncomfortable,

the silence under the music, the loneliness, or the request?

 

My thoughts pace,

too frightened to be definitive.

Forgive and forget

must separate

and

only one word can resound.

 

I spend time going from one dream to another.

They become unlocked tourists

asking permission to leave.

 

 

The phone rings.

It is her.

She asks if I have company.

I say, "No."

 

The car lights flash in the windows.

The dogs bark.

She is at the door.

I say, "Welcome."

 

The cheek kiss.

Awkward moments.

"Rum and coke?" I ask.

She says, "A double."

 

"How are you?" I ask.

"Good. How are you?" She asks politely.

I pick up one of the dogs, the dachshund,

He presses his head to my chest

as if listening to my heartbeat.

 

"I'm dying," I say with a snicker.

She collects the white and brown Shih Tzu

and places him in the chair she has just vacated.

Her movements are calm and deliberate.

She selects a framed photo of us

taken when the sun shone

even in winter.

She opens a drawer

placing it under an older photo of us.

 

Her car's rear lights flash in the windows.

I take her untouched drink and bring it to my lips

recalling,

"Every truth starts with a fantasy."

Philip Butera received his M.A. in Psychology from Simon Fraser University, Vancouver, Canada. He has published five books of poetry, Mirror Images and Shards of Glass, Dark Images at Sea, I Never Finished Loving You, Falls from Grace, Favour, and High Places, and Forever Was Never On My Mind. Two novels, Caught Between (Which is also a 24-episode Radio Drama Podcast

https://wprnpublicradio.com/caught-between-teaser/)  

and Art and Mystery: The Missing Poe Manuscript. His next book, an erotic thriller, Far From Here, will be out in the Winter of 2023. One play, The Apparition. His current project is collaborating with a British photographer, a French artist, and an American graphic artist to produce a coffee table titled Breathing Life into Thought. Philip also has a column in the quarterly magazine Per Niente. He enjoys all things artistic.