CRUSHED (in a good way)

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crush

 noun: a strong feeling of romantic love for someone that is usually not expressed and does not last a long time

Most important thing to know about a crush if you are the crusher? Not allowing crushee to know about the crush. My “love” poems are groundhogs. If they see their shadow they go back in to hiding for about ten years.

Here’s a couple “loves” that I read in Ballard last night in honor of VD. The first, Moon-Pull Pure is for a former TESC classmate who was my neighbor years ago. The poem is from 2012.

 

Moon-Pull Pure

 

you need to hear this

warmth of thigh
cementing space
between neighbors
causes quiet titillation
nice prayer flag
my pick-up line
forget oysters
the ink on your fingers
is foreplay enough
a writer’s aphrodisiac
placing palms together
hippy-incensed haze
words make out
in utility candle light
Send it to the New Yorker I say
you ARE that good
forget the decade between us
never mind bellbottoms or
Pampers in 1970
ingest moon-pull pure
connect the dots before
snow melts

Patty Kinney
January 2012

 

The second, Nessun Dorma (None Shall Sleep) should be read after (or while) listening to Pavarotti’s last performance of the same name. Nessun Dorma is an Aria from the final act of Giacomo Puccinic’s opera, Turandot. In this poem, written in January 2013, it seems Mr. Pavarotti is the object of my affection. Not so. This one is for that one guy. A top secret crush for the ages. The poem was written in about ten minutes and has never been revised.

Nessun Dorma” (None Shall Sleep)

Are we not formed as notes of music are, for one another, though dissimilar?

                                                                            -Percy Bysshe Shelley

This must be written in permanent ink or marked with
a photograph. Preserve the goodness. Remove earring,
bracelet, brain. Do stars tremble with Love? Hope?
Does the night sky hyperventilate? Am I alive listening
to this beautiful singing?

Mr. Pavarotti, I will get a tattoo on my left forearm exactly
where I pinched flesh under nearly full moon, thumb and
forefinger witness to my disbelief. Is there a symbol for
breath, air, lungs? Impeccable Lagato! A clean attack
has been made.

I am like no other. I will whisper my secret on your closed
mouth. It’s the silence that makes you mine. At dawn, I’ll
roll over, do a fly-by at the funeral of my former self. The
girl is dead. The house is cold, cat batting air above wreath
of rosehips.

 

Patty Kinney
January 2012

 

Crushes sustain me. I hope they do the same for you. Love.

 

 

 

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