In Just That Order

I want to write poems that catch
like an aging carpenter’s weathered
hands on the bare of your back,
painful & pleasing & don’t stop,
in just that order.

Red, swollen poems that razor-burn cheeks
from six hours of late-night stubble-infused kissing,
a love that does not linger but leaves its mark.

I want to write barely decipherable poems on
torn scraps of discarded paper, dried out
cocktail napkins once used to soak up
spilt beer, lettering barely legible.

Asthmatic poems that leave you gasping,
unable to find your breath. Light-headedness
fogging the periphery of your vision,
dismal feeling just before the wind
recklessly expands your lungs again.

I want to write desperate poems
that push you out on the ledge,
furtively amass painkillers,
place blade to vein, knowing to
cut along the arm, not across the wrist.

Tight poems like the basalt Lemon Squeeze,
giving only claustrophobic way,
rock-hard, form-fitting space through which
your young niece passes carelessly,
but leaves you sweating and shaking

only to emerge victorious
on top of East Rock,
uninterrupted Atlantic at your feet.

(cc) Karen G. Johnston