Poetry: Frank Matagrano
This request will be in the voice
of a propaganda film asking
the country for nylons and chocolate
bars, a wish that will trail off
like music from a car window,
like foreplay, like a series
of horseshoes and hand grenades.
I am partial to the idea
of making love as a means
of stalling death, of allowing
the body to finally speak
on the spirit’s behalf: I want
to be touched by a stranger
in the back seat of a car
so that there is a darkness
to fear again. Boo: that’s my new term
of endearment. It’s Cajun.
(first published in 32 Poems)
Say heart, say heart on your sleeve, say you become
a better person every time you leave this room.
Say you once fell asleep in this chair. Say you dreamt
the one you loved tried to reach out, and say you spent
half your life trying to call back. Admit you hated
the work: start with yourself, start in this space, start
by pulling the curtains back and say heart, say palate,
say purpose, say lust. Say there are hundreds like you
who ache. Feel the weight on your sleeve. Look at it
under any light. Say match, say candle, say forty watts.