Fresh Light

I know the stools they come to
for comfort, the temporary peace
of low light. I too have made
wet rings on pine and mumbled
in shadowed booths. I know

the coffeeshops where they read
and sip latte, alone in corners
with Hemingway and vanilla,
with a darkness that frightens.
The streets they wander I have

known and dreams too loud,
and stars that offer no condolence
for a stumble or shiver,
and people crossing to avoid
my solitary walking. I too

have needed a coat and emerged
from doorways like a drunk,
not caring who or where I am
or was or would ever be,
of home or refuge. I have seen

the storm flag of midnight flying,
been harmed by its havoc
and sought light, moved east
for sun on my pale face.
I have rubbed against the miracle

of dawn and changed.
Like the flow of a flower,
or wound, when liquid runs
not from but to.
Water drawn. The clotting.

(first appeared in Edgz)

Bait

There are times I want you
but I don’t want you
wanting me

and times I don't want you
but I want you to keep on
wanting me

and times I don’t know what
I want or don’t want

or what I want you wanting
or not wanting.

Can’t I be a shadow child, drifting
in the fog’s white gauze
on cloud-scarred nights,
feeding you rain?

Walk to me in darkness,
turn off that floodlight.

Do you really want to know me,
or just press up tight
to whatever I am?

Maybe you want me helpless,
stretched out in surrender,
your mouth like a lioness
on my belly.

Maybe you want to find out
if torture can be suffered quietly,
or if history takes it personal,

or maybe you just like being
a sea storm on legs,

or maybe you just want to fuck everything
with hair and a heartbeat
on the eastern seaboard,
hit every bar hard, hoisting
three fingers of brown,
up, highballed and butch.

You’d probably find someone,
sooner or later,
who’d be able to say no
if only you didn’t have

that fine-ass twinkle
in your eye

and briar tattoos that scream
mischief and mayhem

and talk deeper
than Bacall

and wear those blistering shoes
from hell

and smell so goddamn French

and make every woman
in every room
want to burn you at the stake

and twist your tail just like
Marilyn Monroe
over and over and over

until every man
in sniffing distance
wants to turn your legs
into his fuckin’ necklace.

(first appeared in Word Riot)

Voyeur

A storm is very much a human affair. Not
simply a force of gigantic fans and faucets
where one must maintain distance
and a resignation to impotence,
but a partnership in mischief. You can

trespass, eavesdrop on seduction. Catch
her in the act of removing his clothes.
It is foreplay how she unbuttons
landscape and teases it with rakes of nails.

Have you ever seen her windfingers fondle
a hard elm? Seen not only the earth
splayed naked but her hips ride and rage,
her hands tear the branches of his hair,
her sky-eyes wild with passion? Tonight

through curtain split I spy her entrance.
There is that special sway, that naughty
purr. She is prowling. I feel a bit dirty
when I see her eyes stare back at me.

She wants me to watch.
(first appeared in Centrifugal Eye)

Patrick Carrington teaches creative writing in New Jersey, and is the poetry editor at Mannequin Envy (www.mannequinenvy.com). His manuscript Thirst (Codhill, 2007), winner of Codhill Press’ 2006 Poetry Chapbook Award, has just been released (www.codhill.com). His poetry has appeared recently (or is forthcoming) in The Connecticut Review, The Potomac Review, Rattle, The Evansville Review, The New York Quarterly, Hunger Mountain, and other journals. Rise, Fall and Acceptance (MSR Publishing, 2006), his first collection, is available at Main St. Rag’s online bookstore (www.mainstreetrag.com).

Email: Patrick Carrington

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