Limber

Have you ever looked into the eyes of a Phantom?
Sweet and untamed --
void of the cowardice of men
who have things to lose, like ego.
The wine was gone so i could be humiliated and
he slid, slowly his finger, round the edge
til the sound was shrill:
a hollow glass
for a hollow face
in a hollow place,
for which i cannot name.
i asked if it was the smell of blood
or the taste
that he preferred on the lips; or
if it was the lips all alone he preferred prior,
for rescuing,
among other things.
He replied, to save them
to save them
from the masks of mortal beasts
who swallow insecurity
just to spit it out as pride;
to save them
from the tight rope in which they climb
wearing satin slips
and slipping
all
the way
down.

e. chayes

Eating Madeleines on October Mornings

dawn tapped on the window to interrupt
the dreamy chatter
of victorian estates with peeling paint
and watercolor lovers, who
smeared deceit upon the pegs
of a ladder
climbing from the garden.
weight of an apricot sky,
pressing hard on the lids, summoned
strength against weeping corneas
settled on the sill --
reflecting her verdigris gaze.
as she sat on the toilet curtained dark,
socks whimpered on her ankles;
left eye's lashes (a cluster missing like stars,
only noticed
by the strangers who dared look deep enough
as they passed)
flickered and peeled.

e. chayes

Aster novae-angliae

coffee wet my chords like violins left in the rain
dewy windows in a sunrise
blades of grass, wept in yellow autumn
the scent alone led my senses to the stage
spotlighted daybreak, symphonic alarm
(technology simulating something I could not describe,
even if I tried to describe,
from a dream)
i emptied my pockets to find golden aster and a rusty compass.
the dials wouldn't turn but the petals talked me out of being stagnant
showed me a door to a star
the path swept by giant arms of oaks
the path crawling to a cacao canopy that turned like stained pages
in a used book
from the trailer on schooley's mountain
we used to call a library.

e. chayes

twelve bar, soft and vulgar

the night slipped in lavender
and blossomed from muddy pillow talk.
sluggish tempos
played by sensual things
fierce things --
spinning sheets and tangled lashes;
rows of lashes, in double mirrors.
her collar bone protruded,
laughing, protruding
laughing.

e. chayes

foie gras for thought

I supposed my time here would be spent in the kitchen, pondering things in broken Italian and chopping piles of verdant greens. Instead, I ended up here. Marked by aged wood and its English name (famous among Varese locals for 37 years), The Golden Egg was a panini shop that could have easily been mistaken for a closet.
A hefeweizen-stained mug with a handle so thick it ached the space between my fingers accompanied me on the only bench in the room. A mahogany-eyed man called my name loudly (from few feet away) with the rollercoaster intonation typical of Sicily, and handed me my panino. I bit into the crispy sourdough shell and found foie gras, funghi, prosciutto, and an awakening blanket of senape.
It was not at all what I expected -- the sandwich, or Italy -- though I try not to hold expectations when it comes to any bill of fare. At first it was good, really good. Complex, completely new; yet comfortable from the ingredients' isolated acquaintances, on previous occasions, with my taste buds.
As the flavors settled and my tongue pushed, to the roof of my mouth, a salty film similar to -- if you've ever devoured, as I did on the floor of my kitchen at age five -- a raw hot dog, I felt it time to swallow my unrequited expectations.
With each sip of beer, I wanted to export myself from Italy back to my roots. Back through Germany where the people, like myself, are as tall and pale as their ales. Back through England -- allowing Europe to linger as the perfumes of a meal linger in a living room filled with satiated bellies and hungry minds.
I wanted to swallow myself into the comfort of some East Coast kitchen where my palate could be spry and seasoned with experience.

e. chayes