Body Language by Devon Brenner

At the seminar the speaker

tells us that any message

is only 3% the words

and the rest how you say it,

the pallate of tones painted in the voice

and the pacing of the breath,

the angles of the shoulders,

the semaphore of hands

carry the message, she reports

in even tones,

with good posture and eye contact,

and as I sit here struggling,

no—tussling, no—grappling with line

breaks and white space

and the spider’s web a metaphor weaves

it’s the words I savor

now he’s spoken them

all three of them,

whispered

against my body

late into the night.

Body Wash

Some days the soap doesn’t work in the shower—

the shampoo just won’t lather,

and after, you still feel tacky

as if, instead of water, you rinsed with grape jelly

or shellac. There’s no reason for it,

it’s the same soap, the same water

at the same temperature,

(too hot for your last boyfriend)

the same fiberglass insert

with the same bar of Ivory melting in the corner pocket,

the same chamomile conditioner.

It just won’t work,

and you dry off and dress and nothing’s right

the skirt of your dress is too short

hitting above the knee as if you were still 28

instead of at the knee—you’re in your 40s.

And your sandals give you blisters

before you’re finished making the toast

and maybe the toast burns

while you’re changing shoes,

and there’s dried egg on your plate

it won’t come off, even with a scrubby.

And all the while

as you grumble about the crumbs in your bra

and how much trash is left in the car—

old tissues and gum wrappers—

it isn’t the soap

or the shower

or the toaster

or the trash.

It’s that third set of pictures

they took of your left breast

and the waiting for next Thursday

and the biopsy

that makes your body-wash fail.

That makes you so unclean.

When It Happened

I should have gone to the funeral

booked a plane ticket

packed a bag

and come to stand with her

beside the short casket

in the midst of  wreaths, roses and baby's breath,

twined with rattles.

I should have sat down and called

listened to the the stories:

first bath, 

first smile,

when she found her in the crib

still and cold in those footie pajamas.

When it happened,

I should have slid a fountain pen 

from its velvet sheath,

carefully refilled the well,

and inked calligraphy onto linen paper.

I had no words to say.

Looking back, I should have stopped

in the card aisle, pulled any one 

from among the condolences.

I could have signed it with a ball point pen,

a dull pencil,

a permanent marker,

the stub of red crayon,

the black tar of my own fear.