Two Poems

A Little Gershwin

Purple everything
on stage, except for the blue
spotlight on the bare
chair,
and the woman
and the man who dance.
They are waves.
They are lovers.
They are waves.
And every light is purple,
silvering blue upon them,
except her arms
that are brown
and her hands
that are brown
and that cup the air
with such weight.

At the dance's end
I ask you, "Was
that really you?"
"Yes," you say,
and your hands
and their fluencies
bring me to you,
and your hands
fan and glide
over my back.
I am growing
wings.

---

Christmas Eve

Ten degrees and dark afternoon,
and you go outside into the Jeep
to rehearse your song for the reunion.
All I can see is you huddled over
the car stereo, adjusting the volume,
pushing back the seat. All I guess
is that it must be "The Christmas
Song," something older than we,
in a brassy timber. I lean
to the kitchen window and tap
silently against the shouldering
clear of this night. When you
hit the lower registers, I swear
I feel the window vibrate,
the wind throwing its ice
upon the glass. When you come
in, I know better than to ask
how it went, but still when I kiss
you, I touch your face, run
my fingers soft over the pulsing
warmth of your throat, and you
catch me wanting, in that old,
male way, wanting to know, and
you say, "It's a gift, you know.
That's all. Something you wait for."