Sifting Flour
for D.B.A.

i.
gone crazy for her certainly
more than she can deal with
more than she knows what to do with

love-sick poet, turning to her for a kiss
desperate that his love for her is not unrequited

a lot for her to deal with, to have to do with
with books in her backpack
to reach in, to take out, to write in

with text books to have to bury her face in
for hours

how can she, in addition, tend to
intense emotional needs, the kind from which
Schubert's symphony # 9 very likely was made

without her though to go to, to hear from
he knows he'd have to be squeezing ink from pens
like ointment, for wounded soul and wounded heart

he knows he'll get over her, over it
he knows it won't be at all easy

but he shall have to get on the road to recovery
and set out and set off if he is to get away
and get back home before nightfall
or before the curtain of life closes

ii.
I went too far today, far further than I'd ever gone
into the following day without a nap

in addition, went as far as that lizard
able to shoot out its tongue a few yards
to feed on an insect upon a limb, half a mile away

shooting out, shooting off, insult or honor or just life
what does she do in the privacy inside her head

in her bed room or when she's in the bathroom
or in the bath tub or in the shower, bare
what erotic ideas spring to mind, occur

difficult to keep a dog on a leash,
cooped up, pent up all the time

into the sunshine, into a park or a vast open field
tail to wag and a dog free, runs
with thoughts of returning to the wilds

iii.
would choose to wear
what would give me a good idea
of what is being prepared in the kitchen

meat loaf or pasta or roast beef

whether what is cooking
is being broiled or fried or stir-fried
or baked of rotisserie roasted

look at her, I could tell
if it is a day, a date of pie for dessert
or rum cake or pumpkin pie

would choose to wear
what would give me a good idea
what is going on in the kitchen
what is being prepared

or just out of the shower
a towel alone about her
or in the shower still,
water beating upon her, bare

between her and who reads this poem
sliding door, made of frosted glass

between her and me and you and me
I love her as passionately as my wife

we made love today for the first time
she went and I came


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2010
Written between Sunday,
February 28th and Tuesday,
4:45 p.m., March 2nd 2010