February 2017
After teaching at a college in South Florida for thirty years, I retired, and my wife and I have traveled around the country, and moved twice in the past two years. Now that we are settled, we are looking forward to exploring our new city and making new friends. Some of my poems have appeared recently in such journals as The Broken Plate, The Comstock Review, Exit 7, The Lake, and Third Wednesday. Amsterdam Press published a chapbook of my poems entitled The Arboriculturist in 2010. Check out my author's page on Facebook or go to my blog at http://www.michaelminassian.com.
Your Party
I have brewed a perfume made of honey
to serve at your party
in place of citrus juice and green melons
I have brought dancing sweet cakes
made of bee wings and the breath of the sun.
In all the streets of the city
I have searched for you above
& below ground; looked on rooftops,
under lawn mowers, and in bakeries;
where have you gone?
the guests wait, crowding the sidewalks;
the line stretches for forty blocks
like a parade where everyone is told not to move,
they fall asleep where they stand,
asphalt for pillows, letters arrived in place of dreams
made of bee wings and the breath of the sun.
Your voice arises to meet mine,
& I try to spell out your name
with my tongue,
repeating after you pronounce
each word, as if we shared
the same accent, silk & flame,
like a whisper heard across the water
made of bee wings and the breath of the sun.
-previously appeared in The Comstock Review, Summer 2014
Your Party
I have brewed a perfume made of honey
to serve at your party
in place of citrus juice and green melons
I have brought dancing sweet cakes
made of bee wings and the breath of the sun.
In all the streets of the city
I have searched for you above
& below ground; looked on rooftops,
under lawn mowers, and in bakeries;
where have you gone?
the guests wait, crowding the sidewalks;
the line stretches for forty blocks
like a parade where everyone is told not to move,
they fall asleep where they stand,
asphalt for pillows, letters arrived in place of dreams
made of bee wings and the breath of the sun.
Your voice arises to meet mine,
& I try to spell out your name
with my tongue,
repeating after you pronounce
each word, as if we shared
the same accent, silk & flame,
like a whisper heard across the water
made of bee wings and the breath of the sun.
-previously appeared in The Comstock Review, Summer 2014
©2016 Michael Minassian
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