M.A. Vizsolyi
Alternate Strain
It’s an old story, finding love. Marie’s smile
makes it fresh again & knowing that it
will end. I saw myself at the fair,
popping balloons with darts, thinking
that no one listens, not the man who
guessed the lady’s weight & got punched.
I was confused & my mother laughed
a little. I’d like to ask her now if she knew
she was beautiful back then. I was easily
taken away—a bumblebee would make me
run off & into the tent with the Siamese twins
named Brick & Brack. When they saw
me, being kind, they said hello, I’m Brick
& I’m Brack, you are one, we are two, so
what, how are you? Which made me laugh
& I asked them what they did. They said
they danced & were each in love with
the small woman which was both
convenient & inconvenient. I didn’t
understand. They gave me some tickets
to ride the pony & I saw her sitting
down. She was very small & looked
unhappy. I gave her my tickets &
said here, you are lucky, Brick loves
you just as much Brack, you should
ride ponies with them & kiss them both.
Two Spirits Stay Warm
What’s morning for? I loved her too much
to wake up early, stumble down
the dusty hallway for coffee. No, we stayed
in bed for hours. No more work, no more
money & light ebbing away. She put her hand
on my mouth when I yawned, & then like
a cat in love with a dog, she curled herself
into the space between my knees & chin.
Some shapes love takes are unbearably sad
when they’re gone—& sounds too—therefore
I sank & turned toward the window. There
were roses then, but just a few—new light
on them, slipping. I wanted forever
that moment, & if there was a prayer I
thought about, I can’t remember it—
though I remember it being a chilly morning.
I remember reading a book about the idea
of the anti-self, & I remember Marie
shaking & weeping almost silently, like
a bird who, when written about,
can sense the ending & falls out of the sky.