LOVE POEM FOR A PANHANDLER
The ache of me stands like a sunlit dust shape
in a doorway of Jerome, that ghost town with its
gold heart bleeding underneath the bars
and girls whose dances make their shirts
of flannel shine, unbuttoned to the breastbone
where they carry their winters, their soup pots
and lockets, their broad bones of light.
I sit with my buffalo love on this mountain,
my fences too small to contain the stampede.
Stacey Fruits
WHEN MY STOMACH SPEAKS TO ME IN SPANISH
I want the Atomic Grill with chili pepper tongues,
stuttering students and love that is not meant to be.
I want to see your face tattooed in shadow by
the blue-eyed vines that nod and ask for water.
Breakfast is another word for early morning light
piled high on terra cotta plates with sprigs of lust
and fresh mint carried down from the Pueblos.
The grower's daughter has a name I can't pronounce,
and how I want the swish of her skirts when I run out to
meet you, your elbows in their usual groove on the table.

Stacey Fruits