You are like a war novel, entirely lacking female characters, except for an occasional letter that makes one of the men cry. I am like a table that eats its own legs off because it’s fallen in love with the floor. My frantic hand can’t find where my leg went. You can play the tourniquet. A tree with white limbs will grow here someday. Or maybe a pup tent that’s collapsed in on itself, it so loves the sleep of men sleeping beneath it. The reason why women dislike war movies may have something to do with why men hate romantic comedies: they are both about war. Perhaps I should live in a pig’s trough. There, I’d be wanted. There, I’d be tasted. When the mail bag drops from the sky and lands heavy on the jungle floor, its letters are prepared to swim away with your tears. One letter reads: I can barely feel furtive. The other: I am diminishing.
Cate Marvin - 1969-
A Windmill Makes A Statement
You think I like to stand all day, all night, all any kind of light, to be subject only to wind? You are right. If seasons undo me, you are my season. And you are the light making off with its reflection as my stainless steel fins spin. On lawns, on lawns we stand, we windmills make a statement. We turn air, churn air, turning always on waiting for your season. There is no lover more lover than the air. You care, you care as you twist my arms round, till my songs become popsicle and I wing out radiants of light all across suburban lawns. You are right, the churning is for you, for you are right, no one but you I spin for all night, all day, restless for your sight to pass across the lawn, tease grasses, because I so like how you lay above me, how I hovered beneath you, and we learned some other way to say: There you are. You strip the cut, splice it to strips, you mill the wind, you scissor the air into ecstasy until all lawns shimmer with your bluest energy.