My Wife Says—
by Shahé Mankerian
In your poems, you remember the kiss
your mother gave you under a loquat tree.
Pressed between stanzas, a blind dog
hides in the residue of a demitasse.
In the melted snow of Mount Ararat,
you always trace the face of God.
You’d rather describe death by skewers
in the sewers of Beirut than kiss me
in a steamy sonnet beneath the stained-
glass gown of the Virgin. I don’t need
morning walks on Champs-Élysées
or a blue heart pendant from Tiffany’s.
My needs are minimal like a haiku.
I’m still waiting for a poem, a pristine plum,
like the kind William Carlos Williams
stole from the fridge—so sweet and cold.
PAINTING:Plum Blossoms and Moon by Katshushika Hokusai (1803).
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: I’ve always loved and admired Charles Bukowski’s poem “one for old snaggle-tooth.” It’s an exquisitely vulnerable love poem dedicated to…
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