The Blue Moon Review

Next Time
by Pamela Gemin

I want to say something
of slender trees
and wet stones
shining with rain
in great grandmother's gardens,
not family drunks 
tramping out of wedding receptions 
to pee down ditches.

In my next poem a deer
will leap out in front of your Volvo
as you hurtle down the freeway,
having just sworn off love for good, 
and give you something to think about
for the next thirty years.

Next time I'll tell you:  *sky, lake,
slipstream, maple, lullaby,
chime, blue marmalade terra cotta miracle,*
and your job will be
to chase these words
three times around the world
and not get winded.

I will offer at least
one allusion to myth
instead of my Aunt June's
dessert recipes,
and refer to an opera
instead of an Elvis Costello song.

And I shall blaspheme,
rail against a nun, 
or better, use the f-word,
but only in reference
to The Act Itself,
not copping out as in *Hey!
Don't fuck with me, fella!*

Next time I'll tell you:  *jukebox, dickhead,
aria, bayou, umbrella, marble,
dipshit, vendetta, novena, massive knockers,*
and you'll know I mean slender trees
and pretty wet stones
shining with rain
in great grandmother's gardens,
won't you?