MFA/MFYou
Three Poems by Saeed Jones
Anniversary Dinner
Have you ever eaten -- No.
Have you ever wrapped your lips around
a bite,
the fork's teeth against your own,
a wad of heat in your mouth,
your tongue surprising itself?
Did you look at the other plates -- No.
Did you care that people at other tables
were eating the same dish
sprig of parsley to the left
rain of pepper on the breast
or were you too busy
slamming your eyelids shut,
knocking your knees together?
Did you grab at the table cloth
or did you settle for a squirm,
a coy shift in your seat,
the hem of your slip peeking up at you?
How many bites did you take
before the taste started to leave you,
before a sip of wine was required,
and then not enough?
The Revisionist's First Kiss
Memphis 1994 - And there is still time
for us to butterfly wings with our lips;
mine sticky with dollar store lip gloss,
yours chapped, always open for air.
We kick off our shoes and let our soles
get tough.
You didn't take off your shoes
and you can't remember her name,
only the ribbons in her pig tails and later
the shape of her chest.
The Watson boys are trying to cook eggs
on the sidewalk, like they always do in July.
When the pavement starts to crackle,
I catch your mouth and hold it
until it is glued with my taste.
Eggs never cooked on the sidewalk.
Not that you remember. You didn't know
the Watson boys. You knew Jimmy
who lived in the next building. He had a lisp
but you liked what he did to words.
It is quiet enough to hear the cars
turning their corners, meeting their lights.
We notice how hot it is and decide
to cross the street for some water.
I run ahead, as always. You fall behind.
A quarter shines for you in the grass.
The street was busier than you remember
and no one was careful enough. Not the kids
out all Summer long, not the drivers
heading home to their families.
I won't scream when my chest crumples
to kiss the front of the car. My hands will hit
the hood for a blink, then down to the street.
I will hear brakes as I slide under them.
The angle of her legs...
The crater in her chest...
The quarter sweating in your hand...
The afternoon burning through you...
Praise Song
Praise to the woman who interrupted Sunday,
walking past the church
naked as the sky above her.
The length of her stride brave
as the fathers who met her gaze,
then rediscovered their shoes.
Church hats
showy as birds of paradise
hovered in mid-air,
then spun around like circus plates.
A Cadillac hit the brakes, the driver cussing
so loud, he had to roll up his windows.
How the boys in Sunday School
pressed their faces against the windows.
Some of them, pretending to cover their eyes;
the rest, straining to see what they had been missing.
How the girls sat back in their seats,
arms crossed, faces like fists.
Praise to her missing teeth.
Praise to the scar above her right knee,
to ashy knees and dirty hands,
to where ever she was headed, and how
she got there.
Saeed Jones graduated from
