S U S A N     B R I A N T E
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THREE POEMS

 

 

September's Company

In bed, Farid reads A Tribute to Ted Berrigan
         strokes his cock.          At his desk,
I drink juice, watch for weather on the creek
surface      nothing but water
         striders.          What are you going to do for me?
At the bed's edge, Farid's on his knees
—Not to me for me: a dance or something, skate across the room
cock in fist          build me a tower —

We make mistakes          large public works projects
for 15 miles under Waxahachie:
         empty tunnels wind, the half-made supercollider in silence, mountains
of Austin Chalk line the roadside

Still it's nice to know something
         's beneath us: surface of water, spider web along the window sill, weeds
on the hill bobbing in sunlight,
thin-leaved autumn:   we grow       short-lined
         when fucking Farid says: Your cunt/Your cunt/Your cunt.
Fucking modernist: big storms blow
         south from the prairies, big hole in the ground, a new book of poetry,
roads in Waxahachie that lead          to chain-linked fence.

 

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