A Scattering of Imperfections
Katrina K Guarascio
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2009, Katrina K Guarascio.All rights reserved.
Cover illustration Copyright © 2009 Kate Luke, all rights reserved.
All rights reserved. No portion of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior written permission of Katrina K Guarascio unless such copying is expressly permitted by federal copyright law. Address inquiries to Permissions, Casa de Snapdragon Publishing LLC, 12901 Bryce Avenue NE, Albuquerque, NM 87112.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2009924204
ISBN: 978-0-9793075-8-4
Published by
Casa de Snapdragon Publishing LLC
12901 Bryce Avenue, NE
Albuquerque, NM 87112
https://www.casadesnapdragon.com
08312010
Acknowledgements
Grateful acknowledgement is made to the editors of the following publications in which some of these works or earlier versions of these works have appeared:
Shadow Poetry Publications (SP Quill)
Chanterelle’s Notebook
Maverick Duck Press
Conceptions Southwest Literary Magazine
Leonard Literary Magazine
Bay Area Poet’s Coalition
Nerve Cowboy
Sage Trail
Part I Freckles, Bruises, and Dirty Thoughts
Horizon
a scattering of
imperfections
across your perfect desert sunset
too many stray
clouds
strange ideas
mixed
colors
absorbing
melting
fading
waiting for you
on
that line
sky meets ground
world falls flat
water pours
into
space
we hold hands
and think about jumping
Wyoming
There’s a place where
the plains stretch
and the grass arches, lingering in the soft
breeze.
A place where fireflies loom,
the cicadas buzz,
and
spotted mustangs nip each other’s
hindquarters in play.
Out in Wyoming, she
has
cousins who ride,
tall, denim-clad and bowlegged,
atop
brown horses
with black pool eyes and
fuzzy muzzles that would
nuzzle
her neck.
She dreams of sunlight on
large brimmed
hats, slightly torn,
and dirt in the creases of her knuckles.
All
she wants is the open land, space,
the wind in her face as she
rides.
You’re Too Sweet in the Morning
The charm that
pours
from your honeyed lips is wasted
on tired eyes and
reluctant hands.
Sugar is best drizzled
throughout the
evenings,
after exhaust fumes and cigarettes
have bittered my
tongue
and the dirt, sweat and heat of the day
has dissipated
behind shut doors.
When the sun deflates upon
peaked
volcanoes readying
itself for retreat and slumber,
that is when
I long
for sweet syrup and slow dances.
That is when I
crave
promises in brown eyes,
a sunset made of caramel and
honey,
sticky on my fingers,
crystals on my tongue
and you,
so sweet, by my side.
Just Breathe
Breathe
in,
light
taste
your hands,
burning,
your
eyes,
open,
vacant,
oceans splashing though irises;
when
you smile
your lips slip into peaceful humor
lingering over
white teeth.
Breathe out,
existence
touch-
silence
here
silence.
It seeps
into you;
quiet delirium.
What Are You Wearing?
I am wearing
your
name on my skin,
fine etched letters
on firm abdomen.
I am
feeling
your hands on my thighs,
tiny finger print bruises
you
left behind.
I am tasting
smoke on my lips,
curls from your
cigarette
lingering in your kiss.
I am hearing
your words on
my tongue,
trying to echo
the melodies we’ve sung.
I am
tracing
the freckles on my neck,
forming a constellation
of
the pictures we kept.
I am biting
the top of fingertips,
so
eager to touch
the warmth I miss.
I am wearing you all over
me,
so afraid someone might see.
Your Cave
I move the stones,
one
by one,
to build your home.
Dark,
yet safe and warm,
your
cave forms
from my hands.
I place you there,
whisper
soft words
to sooth you,
to comfort you.
I know you can't
hear me,
but I hope
somehow
you understand.
I blow
out the fire,
and touch the ashes
carefully.
On the wall,
I
draw your image
with sooted hands,
so anyone
who comes
knocking
sees the face of the beauty
that resides within.
I
left you there,
safe and warm and protected
inside my memory.
The Cliché
I am the cliché
the
girl colored jade
who doesn’t believe in love
doesn’t
believe in much of anything
likes to talk to you though
likes
the pictures in your eyes
and the kisses
(like suppressed
hunger)
you don’t seem to mind
donating to my charity
Sunshine
I find sunshine in
you,
blue skies leak out of eyes,
heaven inside a smile.
You
are my snapshot.
Summer tan and tank top,
petrified.
One
shift of balance,
twitch of your lips,
would break the
frame.
Be still.
Let the fruit
ripen in your hand.
Let
the trees grow
to shade your head.
Let me feel your breath
blow
through
my hair like April’s breeze.
Sit still,
and
exude sunshine.
Hands
Last night I
dreamt
your hands were everywhere.
Under the coffee table,
next
to the frozen dinners in the freezer,
holding some doors
open,
slamming others shut.
I dreamt your fingers
were
walking up my spine
and across my kitchen tile,
and
your palms,
large and strong,
gripped the place between my rib
cage
and hip bone,
the same way they gripped the Folgers
can
on Sunday mornings.
Your hands,
scattered around my
house,
attempting to capture
what previously has gone
untouched.
Apple Cores
I sucked you
clean,
balanced brown seeds
on my tongue,
and waited for you
to wilt.
I am a culprit,
a tangle;
you are my
ocean.
Sweet waves,
fade and swell,
sulking down the
boardwalk
as summer withers.
I no longer think of your
fruit
rotten in the sand.
I walk forward
and leave you to
the tide.
The Desert
He tempts me out to the
desert,
promising warm skin
a thousand stars and a face
framed
by firelight.
I go looking for a full moon
and baying
coyotes,
yet I find only a crackling smile,
inviting laughter
and gentle eyes.
There are no teeth, no venom,
only warmth,
calm, and
a sensation of satisfaction
for at least a moment.
Hungry
There is no maple
headboard
to bang against the wall
on moist summer nights.
No
purple velvet comforter
to warm blistered feet
that have
traveled all night
just to get here.
But the mattress is
soft,
the pillows are down,
and he smiles,
with a million
white, perfect teeth,
hungry for you.
Helen’s Song
She sits deep,
curled
into herself
in front of the fire.
She doesn’t notice
the
carpet is gone,
sleeves are torn,
hair is burnt.
Watching
yellow flames,
she remembers the merlot,
the twirl,
eyelash
flutters
on the ocean’s shore.
Inside the fire she
sees
hidden ships,
showers of arrows,
a wooden horse
easily
entering guarded gates.
Her hands are cold now.
She only
waits,
hoping he will come,
and dreaming of rainy days
lying
in an overstuffed bed
with a feeling of comfort
surrounding
her.
It has been too long.
Running Water
You run from me,
water
down my back.
With eyes red and
wet with exhaustion,
I stop
chasing.
You belt shoulder blades,
slip along my
spine,
over white buttocks;
You creep down thighs,
tiny
hairs
on knee caps,
trails down calves,
and puddle around my
feet.
I let you go,
but somehow I
can still feel you
clinging to me.
The dampness in my hair,
droplets on my
skin,
all you left behind.
Mirror
there I am
look at
me
stringy hair
flat
straight
hanging against my
face
dead ends split
colored dirty dishwater
look at me
flat
chest
can’t even get cleavage
in this VS push up
hips
don’t curve
body doesn’t move
look at me
eyes
sunk
into my head
black circles
excess baggage against
pale skin
spotted complexion
upturned nose
cook it up
load it
up
shoot it up
let the smell fill the room
let this cloud
take over
there I am
look at me
I am
beautiful…
beautiful
Clean
You never come to
my
apartment when it’s clean.
You must think I live
in
laundry baskets
and cat hair.
You must think dust bunnies
keep
me warm at night
and flies keep me company.
You have never
seen
my bed made
or my bills paid
or heard the subdued
hum
of my vacuum sucking.
But there are times
when you
are not around
and this place sparkles.
The Light is Out
the light is out
her
touch still lingers
but he is acutely aware she is gone
silence
passes in thick air
tenderness is lost
like so many unfinished
songs
love is a slave to evolution
he was a slave to her
will
a will now forever gone
the light is out
he thinks
he can still hear her breathing
he dreams he can still hear her
songs
Missing You
I’ve been missing
you
by about a quarter of a mile
in all directions.
I blame
it on the wind
or the rain,
but never on your speed.
Your
white flag waving
is too hard to see.
I call out.
But
never
expect a reply.
I don’t want to know
that you are
there,
just out of range,
out of sight.
Can’t stop missing
you
by about a quarter of a mile
in all directions.
Mary
I tell Mary
the
other morning,
while we sip
our coffee,
I think
I’m in
love
again.
She looks at me,
shakes her head,
and
smiles;
the same smile
she gave me
when I told her
I was
over
the last one.
Awakening
How long has the
tiger
slumbered inside my body?
For how many days, weeks,
years,
have I cocooned here,
waiting for spring and
sunshine?
Isolated on my island,
passive in my prison,
I
conceded long ago.
But, sometimes
eyes, teeth, and arms,
have
a way of waking a person.
I don’t know how it happened.
How
blood grown stale,
cold,
can suddenly
ripple,
boil,
and
come alive again.
How fierce breathe on my neck,
a finger
tracing the spine,
can crack the tightest shell,
and rip
tightly woven binds.
A sensation
just below the
surface,
warming,
heating,
striving,
wakes
and is
vibrating against
roused skin starving for your hands
and
demanding your lips.
Watching the Rain
I watch the
rain
outside large glass windows
and think about things
like
life and reason…
like what the rain would
feel like on my
hair…
like people dancing in the
drizzle,
laughing at
themselves,
at each other…
like childish water fights
and
losing at tag,
slipping through puddles,
staining old
jeans
with mud and water…
I watch the rain
from inside
this glass tower
thinking about all that
could be,
but is
not…