Charlotte M. Porter
Breaded, a poem in three parts
Spurned
Toppled from Grecian urn of John Keat’s famous Ode, I suffer run-around.
Hooves pound, kick my head, resound. Too many spiked drinks,
rites of passage, crossed stars in close quarters.
How dare yells Pan Man I sell the car fully loaded?
I have. I need the bread, my wheels mine to do w/ as I please.
He calls my touch breaded cutlet, my kvetch low rent, my sex stale fry
knotted round his neck like worn sweater arms. Or noose.
Cap backwards, centered between nubby horns, he, the budding faun
is too smart for grad school, too suave for short working gal pal,
trounced me, female bread-winner w/ studio apt, 1bath, 1/2br.
About his staged exit, no mystery. Wall mirror weeps for me, SWF,
numb, dumb, awaiting his someday return for closet coat, winter boots,
& reed whistle—he so certain I won’t harm his flute, his sourced joy,
hah, burdens of my echo, he, hot to trot, will soon slog on foot
as crows refrain my raucous caw.
In Trance
Off urn headfirst, dissed from college rush, I yearn for kitchen man made manifest—goaty Pan on cloven feet w/darling velvet prongs, his torso bare, waist-down immensely hairy, his sun-filled ears translucent, his breathy pipes raising clefs of love like stove-top yeast. I abandon bunny bedroom slippers & barefoot tender a warm loaf (or, is it a puppy?) in a crying towel—me, teary supplicant in trance, in underpants, SWF, seeking advice from on high.
On call, goddess Ceres replies in Doric mode: Single Wrested Fool, up your fiber, honor cereal. For urn inclusion, seek fusion. Choose geek w/ tin ear, thick glasses & big RV fully loaded. Not Buddha burro bearing pungent pud at off-road Eleusinian Mysteries.
Loose translation: Echo, speak only if spoken to. Outsource street noise. Repeat safe vowel sounds—bow wow, baa baa, meow. Never panic. Eat whole grains. Bypass classical ekphrasis. Take joy in rising bread. Fear not gluten. Stay fungible.
Early Rise
I shake off sleep & winsome, fleet, run rose-grey streets.
BUDDHA BATTLES SORROW reads movie marquee for rematch title fight w/
mud wrestlers? Or, luchadora me, jogging hill on a tight leash, fearful inner pup might
chase Grief. Heel warns Dream Ride, fearful of pee on gold Cad w/ white-walls.
Pooch wags, sniffs curbstone fronting castle. Hearth chimes Dream House, 8br, 9bath,
pool w/ port attached. I pull, collar chafes. Shelter pet taunts Dreamland.
Mixed breed I reply all shots, 4 dugs, tail, 6 spots, comes when called.
Tug. Tags clink. Doggie races way too fast. I lean back, waterski the path.
Catch up! jokes Dreamboat.
Hop through hoop coaxes Dream Coach.
I wobble on one leg. Out of breath,
puppy sits, lifts paw, begs. Clouds sail by,
their picnic plates piled high w/ breaded shrimp, slaw &
home fries for housebroke men fearful of escargots, argot & aspic,
plus additives—me + me, fully loaded, SWF pounding path, comes
when called. Dreamland laughs & skies lower a ladder.
Why wrestle w/ angels?
Dog-tired, I settle for crumbs.
Charlotte M. Porter lives and writes in a sweet citrus hamlet in North Central Florida. Look for her most recent work in Neologism, Broken Antler, Susurrus, Bridge VII, ZiN Daily, and Apofonie.