Unfastened

Unnamed November 22, 2008

Already the body holds a new language, muffled
and then sharp with longing. Children hanging from rafters.
Empty hallways, rooms where the homeless sleep.

A house like a nest you don’t wish to leave,
then like a prison of glass. You’ve been told in the past
there was no such indulgence. A house was a house.

A birth was a birth:  sometimes easy, sometimes not.
The taste of iron deep in your teeth, you wake up reluctant.
Through test upon test – heartbeat, blood, bones, sex –

you hold like a levee, you hold like the tracks
of an unswerving train, a stone around a softening center,
where something flutters to speak .

Breasted Zeppelin November 14, 2008

RE-NAMING ZEPPELIN

The bell of the bell bottoms, full-on
stride and swagger, hair loose in a flop
of plant-like curls, lip-synching
Leslie almost looked our front man.

But with one week to go we
were still a blank space
on the talent- night program.
Each name had fallen
unlike Leslie’s chest
which blossomed beneath
a white T-shirt and shook when she swung
the mike, mid-air bra-free nipples
eyed us as if to insist The Titties? The Jugs?

Sarah stoned as Bonham,
Kellie as Page, already perfecting
that lead guitar look –
cigarette stained and frayed,
cat-scratch to the eye and famous
for decking Stephanie B,
who thought herself safe in a GHS sweater,
who nudged past our lockers muttering dyke,
and when Kellie swung, it was more like
Townsend beating his Fender
and Stephanie — the six-string, up in smoke.

For me, with stage fright, to be Jones
was enough. Head down, I pretended
to pluck at my base, worried we’d make ourselves
fools in the face of those posturing boys
who followed The Dead and managed,
on acid, to keep set-lists straight. Saratoga 85,
Hampton Beach 88. Dark Star, Sugar Mag –

The week passed too soon. Back stage, for us girls,
two shadows awaited,
two dirigibles merged.
Were the walls spray-painted?
Did our shirts sprout decals?
Embossed, ironed-on, we became

Breasted Zeppelin. The MC shouted,
and Leslie, ear-tucking a joint, took the lead,
Kellie said Oh Fuck, and I caught the drumstick
Sarah dropped. On stage: I’m gonna give you
every inch of my love, waydowninside
waydowninside. A few hoots and claps
a few lewd remarks,

and somewhere
in my room piled high with records
Linda Ronstadt’s hair
swam as if underwater. Her Heart
Like A Wheel, album of the month,
June, 77, was still labeled for my brother
who forgot to send it back. To keep him happy
I’d paid five bucks, full price. Back then
I didn’t know just how good it was.