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dslockward@aol.com

I’M LONELY 
AS THE LETTER X

Poor, neglected X, only two and a half pages
in a dictionary nearly three thousand long. 
My lover’s gone. I know how it feels 
to receive scant attention, to have gifts 
ignored. X deserves more. 

X is special, a symbol, shouting, Don’t do it!
And kindly too, warning of dangerous crossings, 
strange, dark roads traveled alone. 
Mysterious, an unknown quantity—who really knows 
what X represents? I wish I were prolific as X, 
which goes forth and multiplies: 2x, 5x, 7x.

A kiss. Something over the heart, meaning, 
I promise, meaning he can’t take it back. 
Sex chromosome, X gets what it wants. 
And X obliterates, gets rid of what once was. 
It marks the spot where something is missing. 
I’m thinking about Christmas, how X stands in for Christ, 
but isn’t Him. 

And the music X makes, the joy of X 
in my mouth: xylotomous, xanthidium, xanthocephalus. 
I accumulate X-es, pile them up, 
beguiled by xanthomelanous, xanthophyll, xenopeltide.

X is a changeling, a trickster. It keeps itself crossed, 
the way a boy twists his fingers, meaning, 
I was only fooling, meaning he takes it back. 
I’ve learned from X, become a shape-shifter myself, 
a woman who stands on two straight legs 
and now keeps them crossed.

            —from Eve's Red Dress
            Wind Publications

THE FLAVOR OF SADNESS   

    "[Alex] conducted [Tess] to the fruit-garden and 
    green-houses where he asked if she liked strawberries.
        “Yes,” said Tess, “when they come.”
            —Tess of the d’Urbervilles, Thomas Hardy

Why is the strawberry so darn delicious?
And who decided to preserve it,
closed up in glass, sealed with a lid?
Sometimes I think I know 
how the strawberry feels,
stuck here in this jar of a room, 
ceiling overhead, airtight and locking me 
in one of those stubborn containers  
that has to be whacked 
on the counter twenty times, held 
under hot water, or pried 
with a can opener.
Maybe I just want to keep 
all my sweetness inside.
What would you do—
take a knife and spread me 
on an English muffin? gobble me down?
make a shortcake out of me? Would you
turn me into a tart? Perhaps 
you’d prefer to pluck me, 
fresh from the cool, moist garden, 
your fingers rummaging for the fruit 
of me strewn among the leaves. 
Would you watch me ripen 
from greenish white to luscious red? 
You could douse me in cream 
and serve me with macaroons, 
perfectly round little mounds, 
almond-scented, and chewy. 
Would you pop my heart-shaped flesh 
into your mouth and savor my seeds 
with the buds of your tongue? 
Would you feed me 
to your new lover, the way Alex fed Tess—
poor Tess, who fell for the untrue berry 
the way Eve fell for the snake of her desire,
the way I fell for what enticed like a succulent peach,
but was hard and bitter as a kumquat?

            —from Eve's Red Dress
            Wind Publications

PASTICHE FOR A 
DAUGHTER’S ABSENCE

It all comes down to what’s physical,
this missing her—her face, voice, and skin. 
I imagine my daughter dancing in Madrid, Barcelona,
and Seville, climbing the mountains of Andalusia. 
I had not imagined how far away faraway would be.

Happiness, unhappiness—the same,
my sweet Zen master says, 
and I wonder if the top of my head 
supports heaven, or is this a migraine 
coming on? 

I circle back to the place where precision
and ecstasy meet, remember how I carried the tadpole 
of her body, long before the first flutter, holding her 
like a secret inside me.  

I wake in the night missing 
a body part, my arm stretched across the ocean,
hooked to the past, and I wonder, 
as Achilles’ mother must have, 
Which part of you did I not dip in the water?

Heavy with absence, I hang curtains in her windows, 
yards and yards of delicate Irish lace.
I hide behind the door, ear pressed to the wood,
and watch my daughter’s life—her evening paseo,
late dinners in Saragossa’s village square.
The room fills with the smell of gazpacho, paella, sangria.

Something like grief washes through me, something like joy.
I slip into the waves, feel the ebb and flow of her,
my water sprite, my sea nymph, remember the way 
she glides through a room, the low-tide 
of her voice, how she leaves us,
breathless, all fish at her feet.

            —from Eve's Red Dress
            Wind Publications

SERVICE FOR 
THE MURDERED BOY

        In Tibet they lay their dead 
        on the side of a mountain.

All night I dream of the murdered boy
decomposing in the Himalayas,
laid out under a Banyan tree.
No monsoon of grief in this unarable land,
only mountains rumbling 
with footsteps of tigers, snow leopards, 
and moon bears. A hundred vultures fill the sky. 
All circle in, nuzzle the boy with snouts and beaks, 
and devour him until nothing’s left but bones 
and a skull, resting on stones hard as fists. 

I dream a mission of monks, roaming 
the desert, spinning prayer wheels,
and searching peasant villages for the right
boy, the one birthed at the exact moment
of death. They lift the born-again buddha 
and carry him home.

But my dream lasts only as long as the night.
Morning brings echoes of Ave Maria. 

The father’s wearing a red jacket 
with white leather sleeves, the kind 
boys wear when they make the varsity team.
He leans into the mic and says,
“I don’t want to talk about the future,
or games that won’t get played,
or the boy who shot him. I want to talk 
about songs that were sung.”
Then he breaks down, turns to his son 
still smiling in the blown up photograph.

I don’t want church music, soft and mournful. 
I want hard rock, heavy metal, 
music all bass and treble, cranked up full blast,
the kind that blares out windows of cars
driven by boys, the kind that rocks
the ground and trembles the earth with their songs.

            —from Eve's Red Dress
            Wind Publications

EVE’S CONFESSION

Sunday morning I slipped
out of bed, ran to the bakery,
and bought two apple
fritters, bulging 
with fruit and slathered 
with sweet white frosting— 
breakfast in bed for me 
and my husband. 
    While he slept on
in innocence, ribcage
peacefully rising 
and falling, the kitchen 
filled with essence 
of apple. And oh! 
those fritters looked 
divine. I broke 
off a sample—wickedly 
good—then another 
and another. 
        Of course, it was 
my husband’s fritter 
I sampled. I stuffed 
my mouth. Globs 
of tart gooey apples slid 
down my throat, apple 
after apple, and chunks 
of dough, crusty 
from the fryer. 
    I could feel 
my cholesterol rising,  
arteries hardening, and I 
didn’t care. That fritter 
was delicious. 
    As the calories
mounted, guilt entered 
the kitchen. And still,  
that pastry beguiled me. 
“Eat of this fritter,” it called. 
“Okay,” I said, “one last bite,” 
but knew I was going to fall  
and fall, knew in my evil 
heart I was going 
to eat it all.   

            —from Eve's Red Dress
            Wind Publications             

© All Copyright, Diane Lockward.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.