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Three Poems
by Bernard Henrie



If Men Wore Lip Paint

I want to write a poem about love,
but I am an amateur and old.

Let me start:

the moon is yellow as a goldfish
and big as the breast
of an opera singer.

No.

I say an older woman is borne
by water taxi across a marina
on a meticulous evening.

A love letter for a heavy woman,
a cumquat delicately placed
in the crevice under her clothes.

Or a young woman wet from
summer, her dress fastened
by a man with glazed eyes.

My poem falls asleep in a chair,
my poem is burned to powder.

Let me start again:

if men wore lip paint the breasts
and hips of women would stain red.

Cuban Blockade

I

Hand painted, winter in white
shoes. A Cuban singer
in a dinner jacket, smiling.
What, maybe 60 years ago?

II

Fortissimo like a baritone
in an opera the long jawbone
of weather poked into our
business.

III

It rained on the city
and the umbrella drying
in the stand said very little,
clothes heaped on the rug
naked.

Under the blanket we listened
as the poorly tuned radio
played out its heart.

Can I Get You Something?

And the commuter trains
dripped

after coming inside
under the tin awning
of Atocha Station.

How did I look, an overlooked
umbrella and not enough
money for Manhattan?