Rose Hunter (poetry)
You As White Rabbit
You see the raised down
between its black wall eyes.
This fishy déjà vu
like a hat trick
necromancy how I must have
called you to this hillside
of dirt and stones and tell me
the truth, now, your banana
leaf ears? Your horsey
prancing? Persimmon nose
and crutch walk? You tell me
your babies are kits, and a group
a herd; I thought it was a trace
how you hold out your paws
(no luck) it’s worse today
the losing, feeling, more,
faster. What battle, what fight?
You see. I would have
played that bad hand
which is another way
of being in a hat
or rolling it out, in spades:
the forgetting, sure, but
the remembering. How
I followed you down that
hole and then still asked
You As Francis Bacon, Figure With Meat
Because you are grey? Because you are blue?
Because you have one eye? Or
because you are your face, screaming
in front of carcasses like slippers
to go with your mad pope robe
or elephant ears to match your rage
in this, your echo chamber, Xanadu
or a cardboard box; the idea of light beyond
but you can’t see that and I can’t
know that, and there is nothing either of us
can do with a white arrow on the floor.
Mouth like a strangling and I do not know
if you are alive or dead and still ranting
one hand grasping your cane.
You As Tunnel
The night is drunk and walking home without you
so I have to, too. Past the tin can crack can
mold and Lemon Pledge and I’m back, dark
hallway of the Villa del Mar where I lay
broken but in Technicolor following the script
whereby I will never mention what happened.
I am so close to you. You have done what I wanted.
I am so far from you. Look what you’ve done.
Flesh and bone we left me in that corner
next to the grocery bag under the painted window
on the green chair. I wait for you to pick me up
like a mop or dirty bed sheet, your awesome
disregard in the hot light it’s nothing
to me what’s everything, listen to you snore
(look how much you have loved me).
by Rose Hunter