Eva Jane Peck

 

 

May


Yes let’s talk about May.

In May, air bell-rings the marshland off Van Wyck,
the reek slick soda fountain, hot root beer
watered-down.

In the incredible purple May storm
your perfume makes trails, ground peppercorns
through the air, around the corner.

And there’s nothing like May Thursday nights
French Bulldog under construction lights
flashing orange on Sixth Avenue.

In May something’s ticking in my bag but I don’t know what.

 

 

Operative Cakes


Picking weeds in Long Island City
Many suns on my face exploding—
A man’s up to chest in Mister Softee engine,
cement trucks spin behind him.
And believe it or not, there are a lot of trees.

The life of white asparagus
is spent buried in sand.
When tips come up,
church bells ring.

Celebration’s inherent
in cellophane and garlic skins
feathered in the garbage can.

Have you seen the Georges Braque cheeseburger?
In Queens, on the wall at Burger King.

My thumbprint cookie,
paper-wire poppy,
How weird to see your toes, it’s winter!

 

 

Laundry Poem


There’s sand in the pocket
of my new pants
from their last life
of being made vintage.

Kids walk
and show off
their lollipops.

Outside
it's one of these days
when the skies let you see
further down the road,

the silver O-mouth
of a washing machine
soft as the beard of a lemon iris.