Friday, July 08, 2005

2 Poems Meghan Darakjy

Country Moment Ride Home

In the car you said you were hungry,
but your hands were all covered with oily shit,
so I fed you some chocolate mothballs,
fingers in your coochie mama juices and
the sweetness disappeared in your mouth
as we listened, absently, to Garrison Keillor.

I told you I love Garrison Keillor.
I said his voice almost makes me hungry,
it seems like toffee in my mouth,
thick caramel, or molasses or some shit.
My eyes were heavy then and
I evaporated like a chocolate mothball.

We used to throw snow like mothballs,
drink hot chocolate, listen to Garrison Keillor.
"He's our prairie home companion!" I said. And,
"is your stomach saying it's hungry?"
You cook food that always makes me shit,
but taunts me still, empty salivating mouth.

Remember, to make money we kissed with open mouth,
tongues licking like chocolate mothballs,
'cause boys are psyched to see that lesbian shit -
(not upstanding men like Garrison Keillor)
looking at us with stupid eyes hungry
for sex. Offering us money and

giving us more since we're sisters and
they want it so badly they can feel it in their mouth.
We'd use our dollars to fill our hunger,
tasting yummy on our tongues like mothballs.
Let's not think - just listen to Garrison Keillor,
pretend we're little girls with dolls and shit.

As we get older, and hurt, all this shit
builds up, gets behind my eyes, and
weeping I turn to the purr of Garrison Keillor.
Silences my tear ducts, evens my mouth,
in the quiet of linen closets, mothballs,
and the ever oppressing hatred of hunger.

You say, "I'm hungry, and --
shit! We're all out of mothballs." So I tell you to
savor the butter of Garrison Keillor melting in your


On a beautiful afternoon,
water reminds rain.
Wind blows sweaters on,
steals words and sacred promises.
Further south a clustering of
forgotten people,
speaking to invisible friends of foes.
Windows close to the bleats of
these lambs. Dust kicks up,
swirls in a cloud.
Pull out the umbrellas,
and shiny sunglasses,
avert the eyes, disguise.
The beginning was too long
away now to worry, there is
nothing left here now,
but five cent returns,
wafting drops and changing gears.