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Two Poems by Regina Green

a poet’s life

poetry reminds me i am only human
and a girl at that.
surprised by my inefficient language,
my eagerness to wrench every single
feeling out of my god-damned heart for
a bit of pity or pleasure- pathetic, really.

i am no good if i’m not writing something
down. my face all twisted, my eyes blurry,
my neck a wreck of unfulfilled illuminations.

you can take the poet out of the poem
but you can’t take the poem… oh,
you get the idea. i thrive on the staked
out heart, the singed flesh, the depressed
and lonely lover- i am one if not all of
these and someday you may lick your lips
and say, we knew her when.

she used to write such pretty words- i can hear
it all now. i love to fret and wring my hands
and bleed out plath. if one is not examining
every single word, what has it all been for?

____________________
love comes

love comes on fairly bruised lips
and a natural tendency to lean on
your left hip to exaggerate the fullness
of your figure inherited from grandmothers
from across the sea and when you did this
you felt as if the mediterranean flowed
full force beneath you, carrying you along
in a little red row boat- a paper bag of plums
by your side and half-full bottle of wine
precariously floating on top of the water
held only by its buoyancy and the most easy
grasp of your hand…

you shook yourself off like a dog then, wet
from some unknown source and the water dripped
from your over-long bangs and into eyes that
mirrored not the sky but everything else around
you which could be quite a problem some days.

the tiniest of thoughts entered your head and
you swung around backwards pretending you had
just been surprised on your birthday- but there
was no one behind you at all ready to scare you
out of your wits. it was too simple, really.

you always could be had, even for the smallest
of reasons. there was no more wine and only
half the bag now of plums. you had shared some
with the woman on the park bench you settled
upon after deciding this one was best of all. it
was under a tree and the shade felt delicious. you
wondered if the woman who took one of your plums
and ate it with such delicacy felt as good as the
cool breeze wandering in suddenly

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