Three Poems
The Gamester
there was a man
young, beautiful
his face
artfully angled
his hair
streaked in berries
he washed his clothes
in park fountains and
summer sprinklers
his sun-dried
pristine
white t-shirts
sparkled in rows
on fences
or hung from trees
somebody named him
the Gamester
i never heard
his voice
he often cocked
his head
as if listening
to someone
heroin kept
the monsters away
when he ran out
he bent men over
in filthy bathrooms
he was rumoured
to be very
well endowed
A Little Bit Lost
She was many years younger than her lover
When she called him "baby" in her high clear voice
It pierced the air, people turned to watch
A girl in short bright dresses and worn shoes
The man in dark shirts, designer sunglasses
She always thought she was pregnant or
Miscarrying or plagued by tumours
She described these events in terms of fruits
The last baby was the size of a kumquat
A tumour was a peach pit, but grew and grew
Bigger than a papaya, it was almost an avocado
She carried herself gingerly, took extra care in crowds
Protected her middle, filled with fruit and lost babies
Desert Dream
I never thought I’d fall in love with the desert
Ocotillo shrubs, Saguero blossoms, Palo Verde trees
Cactus wrens, red-tailed hawks, scorpions
The intrigue of desert dwellers, nomadic wanderers
Descended not from Morocco, Algeria, Mongolia
But from the living rooms of America by way of
Viet Nam, homeless shelters, welfare lines
Throwaway people finding one another
As a child my bedroom faced elevated tracks
I would gaze at the shadows behind subway doors
No breezes came through my wooden blinds
I was not allowed upon the fire escape
How I longed to climb out the window
Wave to mysterious midnight travellers
Take the hand of spirits that lived in the air
Fly through the Brooklyn heat, breathe free
I imagined freedom, alive in the ocean or sky
Trails without footsteps, words, thought
No imprints, no memories, no burns, no scars
Spaces that even the wind could not fill
A city child, I was, unskilled at flight, at silence
I couldn’t drive or steer a boat, or paint a house
Running was for away, walking was for the corner
Freedom was sold for dimes and dollars
I never thought I’d fall in love with the desert
Never imagined I’d return to Arizona
Where once I leaped from a car in Flagstaff
Bought silver earrings, rode a Greyhound to LA
Never knew Apache Junction, Superstitious Mountains
Chiricahua peak formed by volcanic violence
Gulches perched on House Rock Valley Road
Deserts filled with sunflowers, mariposa lilies, poppies
Smaller and smaller we are
In the light of sunsets and full moons
In the rising heat of early morning
In the clearing of midnight desert dreams
Spirits humbled, quiet beneath fierce skies
Violet crowns, hearts of green, grounded in red
Feelings course through bodies like flash floods
Never thought I’d fall in love . . .
Puma Perl is a poet and fiction writer who believes strongly in the transformative power of the creative arts. Her work has been published in Cause & Effect, MadSwirl, The Mom Egg, Red Fez, Gloom Cupboard, and many other print and on-line publications. She has been a featured reader in various New York City venues. Her first chapbook, Belinda and Her Friends, is a series of linked poems about lower east side life in the 70's and 80's and was recently published by Erbacce Press. She is currently at work on a second.