I don't let girls in here
    by Clare Christina    author info

through the rain they'll follow in borrowed
jeans, sweater, and shoes, your mother's red poncho
they'll buy the cheapest toothbrush in the store
shake the water off, then follow up the stairs
when girls can't go home you should give them a place to stay
you may be entertaining angels unawares

'it's like you're 16 and this whole apartment
is your bedroom' she may squeal and say 'how cute'
always let them in your kitchen when they're in the mood
to dip their hands in soapy water
spread the towel n the table, lay out
a feast of dripping dishes, and ask
'are you saving this bottle of red wine
for any special time?' 'just some time when I have
clean glasses' you will say. 'well here are two. you open it.'

she'll admit she's extraordinary hard
on dirt; she can see a stuck-on piece of food
in dim light as though it glowed ultra-violet
'where are you going with that pan? I still see sauce'
she'll call you the B word* you've been waiting for
'that's not fair, I've been a bit distracted' you will say
'plus eating out a lot' and she'll repeat her mother's motto
'the difference between messy and dirty is
messy never hurt anybody; dirt, on the other hand,
is evil and will kill you' (she didn't have much
but what she had was clean)

'tell me you are not about to break that pasta
into pieces; don't even eat that off the floor'
'I don't' you will mumble 'usually let' you will fumble
with a rag you call a dishtowel
'well I didn't ask you did I'
the dirty sink like pretty nipples no one ever sees
'it's just mold' she might laugh 'it won't bite, hard
anyway this is not a sauté pan; this belongs
in a garbage can'

throw out this bowl throw out this mug throw out
the stove the table chairs let's lie down
on the floor break off the ceiling let's look
at the stars and open up another bottle
we're celebrating something doesn't matter
what we're eating all the garlic
we can stand burning everything and forgetting
the bread and pj sings 'wanna chase you
round the table, wanna touch your head'
move close to me so I can help you with that
broccoli you're cutting up so tenderly
move closer to me for the winter so we don't
have to sleep separately and dude
we've gotta change this music cuz just now
I almost cried when I saw how the street light
changed the color of the blinds, how pleasure
changed the color of your eyes

'will I feel like I'm at home someday?' she'll say
rolling up someone else's big brown sleeves
and leaning back in your stuffed chair 'I think so
but till then you've got my bed, and there's
cereal and coffee in the kitchen'

______
*B word = "bachelor"

The Poetry Flop House Series:
In 1992 I acquired a large, cheap apartment in the weirdly beautiful Uptown neighborhood in Chicago. Dozens of touring artists, mostly poets, crashed there for a night or more. They were on tour, temporarily homeless, too drunk to get home, or had other reasons. When my old place went condo in November 2001, I began soliciting tributes from the talented minds who slept on its beds, couches and floors. A blessing of real estate fate gave me another big Uptown apartment; any poets who flop will pay with poetry.
- Greg Gillam, Fengi editor.

All material copyright the authors, printed with permission.