What peaches, what penumbras!
That key lime pie jiggles on the plate
as perfectly as Marilyn’s ass
on a train platform.
And now that I’ve arrived, Karl Marx,
how many things can I carry?
Das Kapital ain’t got nothing on me.
I’m stacking plates, pouring coffee and
spilling cream onto countertops,
all the while Whitman and Ginsberg
flirt in my right brain and
I contemplate what it means to trade the body
on the left.
It’s hard to keep walking in Paris when
carrying a porcelain vessel drunk with wine
and the weight of 39 years,
all the while smiling and running dialogue with
Ginsberg—peaches, Reine Claude penumbras, and
are you my angel?
It’s hard to keep walking in Paris when
dreams are as small as a small balcony table
with enough room for vase of lavender and
a cup of coffee, pregnant with cream,
little yellow pearls of bobbing fat telling like tea leaves.
Oh, it’s hard to keep walking in Paris when
selling the body and peeling the heart.
Sheila Arndt is a reader, writer, and Ph.D. candidate currently living in the Midwest. She cares deeply about place, process, the modern and postmodern, critical theory, Americana, New Orleans, saltwater, old blues, and new dreams. Her poetry has been published in Gravel and Black Heart Magazine. www.sheilamarndt.com
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