Craig Shay: two poems

Tea Song

She slips into the futon,

and wraps herself around him,

like a winged creature,

in a nest of grass.

She unhooks her bra,

and throws it over

a lampshade.

It rains all morning,

as she nurses the leaves of his imagination

where blue azaleas grow,

also cherry trees,

and rows of bright purple grape vines.

The thousand or so

ceramic pots in the apartment

begin to overflow –

Blue hydrangeas, plum trees,

orange mums, chicory –

and rows of glowing sunflowers,

bloom steadily

as they dream for hours.

She burns her lips

on the first sip of tea,

and it reminds her

this is not their apartment –

these plants do not belong

to her.

Only he belongs to her,

and they belong with each other –

The cat, which has been hiding all weekend

emerges from a spare bedroom.

Honey Moon

The shadow,

of her body

on the wall,

makes car-bombs

explode

with wild laughter –

We linger,

awash with innate light.

Both of us searching

for what has been vacant

in a thousand human faces –

I am no longer

an empty coffin,

drifting alone

in the middle

of an ocean.

The sound of her breathing

is my favorite music.

Craig Shay is from Long Island, NY.