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Dave Bonta
Prince Charming
A bad week. She swallowed
pills, eight
little erasers& while she lay on
the floor with her mind
elsewhere, the golden Lab
brought his famished
tongue across her face.
Unclipped toe-
nails click
on the cold linoleum
as the dog goes
to his bed, comes back
for another lick, & finally begins
to nibble.
He starts with the lips,
her jailed lover’s image in the mirror
slowly loses color
like tea poured again & again
from the same leaves
or a cloud of cigarette smoke mixing with the air
beneath the mirror’s mercury lies
the captain lost at sea in some
interminable corrido
his waterproof watch still ticks inside his slicker
it’s past 3:00
light from the street lamp
filters through the slats of the blind
outshines the moon:
two sets of stripes that cross at
an oblique angle on the walls & the bed
where she lies staring into the one dark corner
I slept in a paper box,
forgot where I put my hands.
People work to make a light
into my cellar.
I am sorry for lying
to my picture in the glass,
for writing to please friends
and not the rules of art.
I found carpenter’s tools,
which spoke to me.
Click, clack says my walking stick,
& the soft buzz of a rattlesnake
shivers from the rock.
You go for water & bring back a strange new lover:
that’s how it is in the tales the old wives
used to roll between their palms.
One long noodle of clay made a bowl, a mirror
you could drink from. Coiling or uncoiling,
something always gets loose.
I order
so I may have order,
like a rogue king talking
to his own face:
that he was not received with respect,
that he was a traitor.
They have never stopped watching me
or reminding me of my own,
inferior pair that cannot shoot
sweetness at the world’s
avid mouths. They lurk
in mirrors and behind drapes,
disguise themselves as crockery,
solar flares, or bells that ring
backwards: wholly holy.
If they were ever to blink,
we would all disappear—
let’s keep them under wraps
and over underwires where
they’ll be safe. Only then can men
preserve our immense dignity
and not tremble like virgins
I eat my enemies by the handful:
spicy leaves of the invasive
garlic mustard.
Back home, I strip
in front of the mirror,
checking for ticks.
A squirrel walks past the window
with bulging cheeks,
carrying one of her young.
The blue plastic eyecup
of my mote-ridden boyhood
still sits on the top shelf
behind the bathroom mirror,
at eye-level now.
I remember how good
cool tap water felt
after the hot tears,
tilting my head all
the way back & willing
my eyelid to open,
& afterwards feeling
the scar & the scare recede
from that bit of grit,
but also a lingering sense
of guilt for letting
Today I woke up cold .
I stood up and my limbs were stiff .
As stiff as terrible restaurant bread .
I got dressed and went to work only to be met by strange and terrified looks .
My boss called me into his office .
He was a strong man . But upon sight of me he turned pale as if he had seen a corpse .
He told me to have the day off .
So I decided to go to a date .
When she saw me she spewed vomit all over our table and shrieked and ran away .
I went home burdened with a heavy sadness .
Why did everyone look at me like I was some freak ??
I decided to look in a mirror to see what they saw .
And too my shock I was met with a pale grotesque corpse looking back .I think I may be a corpse .
Pain cuts like a knife,
Hard for me to breathe.
Knowing what happen,
Enable to believe.
Losing almost everything,
When he walked out the door.
Heart shattered to pieces,
Smashing to the floor.
Picking myself up,
After laying on the tile.
Overcome with hatred.
Feeling so vile.
Thoughts racing fast,
Zooming right by.
Many points in my life,
I wanted to die.
When I walk into a room,
What do others see?
What do they think?
What do they feel?
When I open my mouth,
What do they hear?
Do they understand?
Do they care?
Leaving friends at a bar,
Words inevitably spoken about me,
Never knowing what they are,
What they truly think,
When separated from family,
My name is mentioned,
Judgments and worries,
Fears and questions,
He asked me politely, ‘ Do not write
All these sob-stuff, write about happiness’.
I turned further morose when he said kindly
‘Regret I cannot take anything away
From what you write’.
Rummaging through my trunk
I retrieved my faded, forgotten mask
Of good cheer.
Clasping it over my face
I felt good, looking in the mirror
Because I was grinning
From ear to ear.
But then, queerly, the reflection
Had empty sockets
Where my eyes should've been.