Eszter Takacs

 

 

I am your target audience

 

I'm reading a story by Lorrie Moore
and she talks about the dead with humor.
It is nice to feel certain about any atrocity,
to tell jokes while carrying a suitcase to a funeral.
I can't read your poetry because it feels weird
to speak your name aloud, even alone.
I whisper someone else's name and that feels OK.
The celebration outside is going on about itself,
neatly tucked and quietly golden.
I am there but I am also not there.
I am a small equation about miraculous fate.
I calculate five reasons for hating your hands.
When you say that the sky is blue,
I can only think of your smooth white neck
and how it blooms under water.
If I look in your eyes, I think I might linger there,
an assumption faulted for its inaccuracy.
The impression you left
is like the feeling of being touched over
the fabric of soft winter clothes
and not knowing what's been taken.
Inside we trade glances.
I have a look at your animal drawings
under your bright bedroom light.
For the first time since,
your appetite is that of a ghost.
We are a foreigner's bevy living other events.

 

 

 

I want to study an explosive device inside your mouth

 

We come home to find our lives inverted
and surrounded by meaningless blue light.
Something as unnatural as love can bloom
to the rhythm of my hiccups while charming
a brand new stranger I found with my keys.
The bare end of the mystical road belongs
to our founding fathers. I ask that we keep ourselves
within their good graces, within the mannerisms
of a modern department store, its cold electrical sockets
blooming like the topography of a waxen sun.
We go inside a house of blame and it is stupidly warm
between our fingers. We are waiting to become any kind
of unwelcome suggestion. Our trees are full of mistakes.
I open your stomach but there is only water inside
and it is holy. You warn me of beginner's luck.
We are both taking these tangents too seriously.
Our appreciation for math is undesirable when opened outdoors.
I am on the market for a miniature version of acceptance.
I am on Craiglist in a hundred pieces but I don't remember why.
I am thinking about a famous rainbow right now.
I was thinking about it yesterday too.
Elsewhere on other pages my hands belong to someone else already.
I'm so sorry for everything I couldn't tell you
in our strange new language of invented sounds.