[L.E. Leone again contemplates love. Enjoy!]
ANOTHER RECIPE FOR LOVE
There’s a kind of wild
Flower grows along the highway
Here, Nebraska, makes me think
Of you. But then: so do weeds
And roadkill. Orange cones,
Construction, so beautiful it’s
Almost deafening. I know, I know:
You don’t say “I love you” to
Someone you’re falling in love
With. It’s like shooting yourself
In the foot. Worse: like hacking off
Your foot with a hacksaw, stringing
It up by the big toe from a tree, and then
Shooting it, nine times. What’s left, form
into a patty. I prefer peanut oil
Five minutes each side … all the while of course
Bleeding to death, I love you.
There’s a kind of wild
Flower grows along the highway
Here, Nebraska, makes me think
Of you. But then: so do weeds
And roadkill. Orange cones,
Construction, so beautiful it’s
Almost deafening. I know, I know:
You don’t say “I love you” to
Someone you’re falling in love
With. It’s like shooting yourself
In the foot. Worse: like hacking off
Your foot with a hacksaw, stringing
It up by the big toe from a tree, and then
Shooting it, nine times. What’s left, form
into a patty. I prefer peanut oil
Five minutes each side … all the while of course
Bleeding to death, I love you.
L.E. Leone
© 2010
© 2010
Wonderful. It's like "These Foolish Things" turned inside out and upside down and left out to dry.
ReplyDeleteHi Alan: Speaking of wonderful--that comment is priceless! So glad you liked it.
ReplyDelete(((giggles)))
ReplyDeleteHi Willow: Yes indeed!
ReplyDeleteWow. That's quite a violent image. But expressing love makes a person so vulnerable that even the prospect of rejection is incredibly damaging to the soul.
ReplyDeleteHi Raquelle: Yes, L.E. got down to it on this one; & you're right--this poem actually had me thinking about times when I was younger when I didn't express love just because of those sorts of fears--it's the fears that end up doing the violence I think--not that I should be speaking for L.E.
ReplyDeleteGod I love this...
ReplyDeletejust the big greasiness of it all
and I'd like some sweet potato fries alongside..
ya know, the kind you get at The Peddler's Daugher in them tin pails.
They make their own ketchup there..
real tomato ketchup
red as a whore's funeral dress.
Rene
Good to see you again, John :)
WOW! It just descends into a blackly-humourous revelation! The shooting 9 times really got me (as if the rest of it weren't enough).
ReplyDeleteIt catches that gut-wrench so expertly. I find myself wondering if the emotion spilled out or she really had to think about it.
Kat
Hi Rene & Kat
ReplyDeleteRene: I'd say you're on L.E. Leone's wavelength there! Always a pleasure.
Kat: Yes, the 9 times is something! I don't know the background on this one--perhaps L.E. will drop by & answer your question.
Love it, John! I especially love the ending.
ReplyDeleteHi Karen: So glad you liked L.E.'s poem! Thanks.
ReplyDelete@Rene - "Red as a whore's funeral dress"! That's great! (So glad I came back to the comments - that alone was worth it.)
ReplyDeleteKat