the INLAID EAR

Tócame             After Karl Frost Anticipation butters my skin like a hot skillet jumping garlic. You’re going to touch me and take me in. How slowness makes our thoughts come so quick! When our bodies meet—what will happen? We cook a harmonious conflict: If chilies strike, honey blocks. Who wins? Never mind. Measuring’s an ape trick. Instead, let’s will the soup to simmer. I’ve pushed the meat back and seen the bone. Your shades were parted, and your windows stood clear. Then, through my reflected face, I saw your greenest wishes glinting as my shadows passed inside your space. Your truth is true, my dear heretic: We’re ready to slough the carapace and let our whole bodies take the feast. by Gitty Duncan

Hold that time “Meet me in St. Louis, Louis…” If my seven-year-old daughter were a U.S. year, she would be 1947. Summer. While the movie’s a slog to me, she is transported on Garland’s Technicolor eyes to a time cradled tenderly in the arms of a later time that used film as a salve and an opiate. Maybe she won’t find out how glum Judy became. The plot’s struggles, in retrospect, are quick to dim. When we watch the “Making of…” reel, it opens with clips of bombers. Instead we steer on Google to The Fair and Liza Minnelli.