Rita Dove: Golden Oldie

I made it home early, only to get
stalled in the driveway – swaying
at the wheel like a blind pianist caught in a tune
meant for more than two hands playing.
The words were easy, crooned
by a young girl dying to feel alive, to discover
a pain majestic enough
to live by. I turned the air conditioning off,
leaned back to float on a film of sweat,
and listened to her sentiment:
Baby, where did our love go? – a lament
I greedily took in
without a clue who my lover
might be, or where to start looking.

Rita Dove: Flirtation

After all, there’s no need 

to say anything 

at first. An orange, peeled 

and quartered, flares 

like a tulip on a wedgewood plate 

Anything can happen. 

Outside the sun 

has rolled up her rugs 

and night strewn salt 

across the sky. My heart 

is humming a tune 

I haven’t heard in years! 

Quiet’s cool flesh— 

let’s sniff and eat it. 

There are ways 

to make of the moment 

a topiary 

so the pleasure’s in 

walking through.

Rita Dove: Dawn Revisited

Imagine you wake up
with a second chance: The blue jay
hawks his pretty wares
and the oak stands still, spreading
glorious shade. If you don't look back,

the future never happens.
How good to rise in sunlight,
in the prodigal smell of biscuits --
eggs and sausage on the grill.
The whole sky is yours

to write on, blown open
to a blank page. Come on,
shake a leg! You'll never know
who's down there, frying those eggs,
if you don't get up and see.

Rita Dove: Hades’ Pitch

If I could just touch your ankle, he whispers, there
on the inside, above the bone— leans closer,
breath of lime and pepper— I know I could
make love to you.  She considers
this, secretly thrilled, though she wasn’t quite
sure what he meant.  He was good
with words, words that went straight to the liver.
Was she falling for him out of sheer boredom—
cooped up in this anything-but-humble dive, stone
gargoyles leering and brocade drapes licked with fire?
Her ankle burns where he described it.  She sighs
just as her mother aboveground stumbles, is caught
by the fetlock— bereft in an instant—
while the Great Man drives home his desire.

Rita Dove: Happenstance

When you appeared it was as if
magnets cleared the air.
I had never seen that smile before
or your hair, flying silver. Someone
waving goodbye, she was silver, too.
Of course you didn’t see me.
I called softly so you could choose
not to answer – then called again.
You turned in the light, your eyes
seeking your name.