Triplet Writ | Fringe Arts – The Link

Triplet Writ

Graphic Clement Liu

    Smooth It Over


    Smooth over what comes apart,
    smooth it over,
    and with gentle hands she does
    just that: one palm flat against
    her mouth, holding everything in.
    Who dreams of stars any more?
    Maybe she does, her eyes wide,
    focused on some distant point.
    Smooth, smooth. And her hand
    brushes his face, the groove
    of cheek bone, flesh, hollow
    of the eye, that ridge—
    and she finds herself slipping
    down and away.
    Who has any time for strawberries
    and cream? Not her, surely;
    she sits in the kitchen with her skirt
    all white seaweed in tatters
    around her. No time for sewing, none
    for putting things back together.
    Just smooth over,
    she knows, just smooth over.
    Who loves with a fire to burn all else?
    Perhaps her, but a fire can’t face
    a storm without the certain knowledge
    that rain will put it out. And the message
    he left on her machine was just:
    “Hi” and empty space, and “So I heard you are
    doing just fine. That’s good. Well,
    Sorry I missed you. Maybe we will talk again
    some other day.”

    Then there is so much endless
    grey and white, and she can only
    smooth over
    so much.




    Hey, Killer Smile


    Hushed in hues:
    radio jazz, vivid blood,
    fear which pricks
    and swells the skin.
    Saw your smile, its too-whiteness
    cleaving the blue hour
    right in half, bloom of lips
    torn silk. Kid skin hands,
    smoothing the dress hem,
    pulling and teasing
    calves and thighs.
    How’d you break her resolve?
    Hot water, soft kisses
    which snared her and melted
    the clothes right off her body.
    She was sugar and she dissolved
    in the grooves of your tongue.
    Someday they’ll dig
    her bleach white bones
    from the sweet earth
    and you’ll smile again,
    all teeth in the dark.




    To the Crescent in Winter


    To the poplars in the ravine
    and the teenage boys smoking
    on their lawn, and the wolfhound
    prowling the yard,
    and the chilled pond with its silent
    surface, and the rooftop snow peaks:

    Surely, on days like this
    I am an amateur ascetic,
    climbing the loneliest mountains
    suburbia has to offer.

    This article originally appeared in Volume 31, Issue 12, published November 2, 2010.