© Lyn Lifshin

THE MAN WHO BROUGHT EMERALD MANDARIN ORANGES

because they
were the color
of his eyes
and he could feel my
legs turn
to sea water.
He was leaning too
close, knew I wanted
to. His eyes whole
oceans full of
crinkly fish.
He wore light green
clothes. Wheat
was what he cared
for, buying and
selling. He knew the
green would be
striking against a
field of wheat,
startling as when he
moved near me
on the couch. Green
eyes of water. Sea
that dazzles, pulls cars
off route 1A, his
hair black, blacker
than rocks
at Big Sur

PUTTING ON YOUR WORN THIN T SHIRT MY NIPPLES POKE OUT OF

darts I long
for your bulls
eye to touch.
Jade leaves could
be corridors of
mirrors, your
lips, arrows under
the sheets. Pale
boughs of cherry
won't let what's
inside stay in
side, that pink
sucks on me. I
Dial long after
midnight, fingers
rub into your
black silk night,
could turn your cool
white hot river jazz

THE MAD GIRL IS FILLED WITH BLACK PETALS

a few are almost

lovely, exotic,

something she

could wear in her

hair like a black

rose, startling,

suggestive, But

after a while

with so many

crowding each

other, pushing

her from the in

side out they

buldge thru her

skin, her nipples,

leave dark stains

on anyone who

tries to hold

her. She could

be the heart of

darkness, the

pit no one enters,

comes out whole

THE MAD GIRL, LOSES HER DISCONTINUED LIPSTICK

nearly missing the

metro, dumping

out zip bags, plastic

cases, forgetting her

bottle of water

before the dash to

the door. It's just

a small loss in a

stretch of things

leaving her: teeth,

her publisher, the

man who doesn't

exist. It's too pale

she knows, not

worth tearing the

house apart, a

light rose flesh

color, almost not

there but somehow

better than the

others like lovers

she's dreamt of,

imagined covering

her like lips trans-

forming what was

MOVING BY TOUCH

almost, as tho it
was the leaves, grey
all afternoon. Could
it have been the water
moving near us
pulled us together
so that that night
warm in each other's
hair, roots were
sprouting from a
moist dark. It was
so strange, even later
we didn't know
what to call that
need or love
like mushrooms,
overnight,
not expected

    *

quietly
pressing frost
off to touch
the taste,
feel of
iced glass. The
apples in the
sun window
where the
paint is
pealing
shine
the way we
lean here
saying
nothing
but know

    *

living with
you, well this
room's not
everywhere, I
know there are
other places.
Right now I don't want to go

            *
let me I
know the chilly
places in you, I
never wanted to
marry you
away from those
wild caves

here there's
dogwood now,
I'm thinking how
I was the one
scared then

you carried me,
I know the snow
would sting
if you
let go

None of
that matters

    *

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All poems are copyrighted property of Lyn Lifshin.

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