Just Between Me And You \ Nobody Said

Alan: Today, the “oddly private public place” would be somewhere on the internet, but in the 1970s it was physical photos in a physical landscape.

Just Between Me And You

Among bushes at the edge of town –

winking up from lank grass –

a scattering of Polaroids, flashers

in this oddly private public place –

someone’s dirty afternoon,

curtains drawn, before the mirror.

In each, the same hefty dick:

front view, side view, solo

or with supporting cast,

before, during, after, even limp

on a plate (Still Life: Banana with Plums);

blurred belly-skin, bunched hair.

I gather them up for my friend Ryokan

for a laugh.

Feeding them to his fire –

each penis blackening, curling

into acrid stench – he said,

“You know, don’t you:

these photos are of me.

These photos are of you.”

Nancy: How often I read in the newspaper, “but he’s so good with the children,” “our best volunteer,” “always there when we need him” – when, finally, somebody says.

Nobody Said

Dirty, dirty old man.

Nobody ever said.

Nobody ever said don’t go flying

that kite down by Mr. Harold’s

house.  Afterward, I never said.

Nobody said never

stop to pick lemon lilies

and then my arms full

of lilies, big man hands

under my summer shirt.

Broken.  Broken, broken, all my

flowers in the grass, broken,

my heels, my elbows, scuffed

gritty trashy old grass and

in my hand, suddenly,

an axe handle.

My Mama put down the washcloth.

Don’t talk stitches to me,

my Mama said to Mr. Harold’s

wife.  Just shut that screen door,

please, and think how lucky he is,

think how lucky he is

there wasn’t a head on that axe.

Nobody ever said otherwise.