BROOKE HARRIES
Heart Inventory
What’s in my heart?
Searching for the right
place in the blanket, for the inside
of my knee, little dogs
shaking it off and making themselves
upright after almost doing the splits
while being walked on a leash,
ornaments from trees,
shivering, splintering promise
kept like crazy.
The patience it takes.
The ease down the lane.
These lists to say: beauty.
Soft yellows.
Sometimes ‘down the line’
means after death.
Sometimes the only thing
that makes a poem a poem
is its corniness, literally
that’s the only thing.
That’s not in my heart.
It’s a bunch of boys
in bands, it’s a lawn of
bocce ball, spaghetti,
handmade, string of lights
draped outside, it’s a baguette,
never eaten, always fresh,
it’s ice cream covered by
espresso, it’s three more
things that I’m holding in
my hands, it’s being in there
afraid of the dark, clutching
ibuprofen, quotes by Rilke,
and Kahlil Gibran.
Books half-read, underlined,
and many sides of people when
eye contact was avoided.
It’s a heart full of fear,
and a long train track,
and a single match,
cigarettes, pumpkin pie,
dandelions, meditations
on furniture design, and
Carl Jung. It’s picture after
picture and my face looking
progressively better. Full of
instructions for not being
a creep. It’s a canny choice,
a done deal, flawless comic
timing, ah, haha! Huzzah,
the clattering of a tray
of silver to polish, a jigsaw
puzzle to recreate. It’s the cool
light of a monster truck show.
It’s the underneath feeling
that lives like lining among
everything sensitive. Would it
be mean to water plants
with ice, or just flirty?
Pastels begetting pastels.
A rambling scam that amounts
to love repeated in various
forms. Sign here. Freud’s death drive,
driving in the slow lane behind
someone without insurance
going forty. And a language
that breaks itself to keep going.
What’s in my heart?
Searching for the right
place in the blanket, for the inside
of my knee, little dogs
shaking it off and making themselves
upright after almost doing the splits
while being walked on a leash,
ornaments from trees,
shivering, splintering promise
kept like crazy.
The patience it takes.
The ease down the lane.
These lists to say: beauty.
Soft yellows.
Sometimes ‘down the line’
means after death.
Sometimes the only thing
that makes a poem a poem
is its corniness, literally
that’s the only thing.
That’s not in my heart.
It’s a bunch of boys
in bands, it’s a lawn of
bocce ball, spaghetti,
handmade, string of lights
draped outside, it’s a baguette,
never eaten, always fresh,
it’s ice cream covered by
espresso, it’s three more
things that I’m holding in
my hands, it’s being in there
afraid of the dark, clutching
ibuprofen, quotes by Rilke,
and Kahlil Gibran.
Books half-read, underlined,
and many sides of people when
eye contact was avoided.
It’s a heart full of fear,
and a long train track,
and a single match,
cigarettes, pumpkin pie,
dandelions, meditations
on furniture design, and
Carl Jung. It’s picture after
picture and my face looking
progressively better. Full of
instructions for not being
a creep. It’s a canny choice,
a done deal, flawless comic
timing, ah, haha! Huzzah,
the clattering of a tray
of silver to polish, a jigsaw
puzzle to recreate. It’s the cool
light of a monster truck show.
It’s the underneath feeling
that lives like lining among
everything sensitive. Would it
be mean to water plants
with ice, or just flirty?
Pastels begetting pastels.
A rambling scam that amounts
to love repeated in various
forms. Sign here. Freud’s death drive,
driving in the slow lane behind
someone without insurance
going forty. And a language
that breaks itself to keep going.
The Type of Woman
Men Befriend
Some men want a woman like a ghostly
reflection over a lake. I’ve tried this.
That’s not a woman, that’s a wraith.
Other men think I have something
and they worry they won’t get it.
To them I am some secret found
on an obscure branch.
Around them I can say roll up the window,
I’m cold and they are astonished
by what I say about music.
My hands are beautiful.
They think about my exes, my feet.
They ponder a chance to break my heart.
When I wake with smeared chocolate candy
on my pajama pants and the sheets, they laugh.
They draw pictures, cook from scratch.
And when they go, it’s me I miss.
The Night We Sat
at the Pinecrest Diner