Itch Scratch
for Danielle Bethel

light filled, life filled, all lit up
light shines through
bulb bright woman

to ignite like that, ripe like that, ripe fruit

mixing my metaphors
shouldn’t moths be as mixed up

flapping until fluttering around her
come to the warmth, to the light
to expire

am I a moth drawn to light
drawn to life, to have life drawn from me
in short order

should she not be enclosed in lamp shade
that she’d dazzle less

dangerous to be exposed, to gaze, to touch
I dare not

hands in the gloves of poems
to go near her

look up, look down
as if to weigh, to estimate
what such a jewel weighs
and what it’s worth

with “it,” I’ve made a thing of her
inadequate language
I address her with

already I begin to worry of envy
being seen with her, known by her

come to know her and what enemies
what rivals

those who’d want to take my life
because I’d made such a find

I’d have to hide away, hide her away

how does she go about at present
how does she get away being so lovely
I’d be timid

for this very reason, I cultivate
I’ve cultivated shabbiness
even if only superficially

timid, I hide my worth inside
she dares be beautiful
amid such ugliness, amid the mess
which our times are

oh, that poem of Yeats
about what it must have taken
to drag into being, such loveliness

must have been about such a one

how easy ugly is to come by
in our time

five senses, like five chalices
to take ugly communion from

this transparency
containing and transfusing light

enough to fill a poem
a clapboard house, dilapidated
lovely in the morning

vine-covered, dew-covered
sun coming up, pin-pricking light
going out, going forth
in every possible direction


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2008
1:01 a.m. 15.06.08