Poetry

Spring 2008

 

 

Suzanne Cleary

The Man Who Has Never Owned a Dog Pets a Dog

The man who has never owned a dog pets a dog.

He does not bend his knees. He bends from the waist, leans toward the dog,

who stares as the man lowers his hand onto the bony head.

The man feels the hard skull under the warm, bristly fur.

Nice dog, says the man to himself. Nice hand, says the dog,

who knows the open hand is the hand that slaps.

This is not the first time the man has pet a dog,

nor the first time the dog been pet by a stranger.

Still, the first time is inside of this.

The first time is inside of this.

 

Strong Bikini

          after misreading a resort-wear advertisement

Three turquoise triangles
sheening and sheer, stretched
taut against the taut roundnesses of her,

two pieces strung to each other
by silk ties,
the third piece strung to itself

by silk ties, knotted
as if to hold the boat to shore,
the little knots press into the skin

as if to test,
Can it be real,
such beauty?

Strong bikini, that dares
to ask the question,
to strain for the answer,

strong bikini, that takes our thoughts
and holds and slightly lifts them,
our thoughts.

 

 

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