MAY POETS

Advice to Vanity

by

Andrew Feindt

At her daughter’s vanity,

mother, reflecting, advises,

“One day you’ll miss your armpit hair.

“For now, take pride in rite:

let fingertips congratulate technique,

praise razor’s gleam, efficiency.

“By three steel blades and lubricating strip,

grooming has made your skin smooth,

severed beast’s hidden coat from woman’s skin,

“shaved outline into America’s silhouette of mate;

relish conformity as compliment,

innocence swapped for passive seduction.

“You have matured into ritual,

but beware: anniversaries will cultivate resentment –

life lost to unappreciated preparation for the everyday.

“Preening as bait will be priority

until marriage (and after on special occasions)

until libidos settle, atrophy.

“Then, reflections will seem strangers:

a little girl in her mother’s shawl

clomping around in shoes three times her feet.”

Again in my Monster’s Mouth

by

Andrew Feindt

gnawed between rows of jagged teeth,

embedded bottles – smashed open, hungry –

drool cheap whiskey anger over bitten lips.

Soaked-in chagrin, subsequent helpings –

lime-tainted gin – revealed your face,

elongated mural of acrylic aerosol

along arched walls of my tunnel vision:

your frozen jaw dropped in desperate howl,

your arms outstretched for light.

After the fifth drink, there are no apologies;

a sober breath promised to not look back.

With stare centered on dark, infinite throat,

my slurred shouts swallowed, regurgitated echoes

tugged eyelids blind, burned nostrils numb.

These were the tears – wet, unintelligible screams

waves of goodbye – which wore away sobriety’s shallow inscription

from the monument I dedicated to you

and your patience, just as thin.