3 Poems by Dawn Corrigan

THERE IS a MAN. Let’s call him D.
There is a woman. Let’s call her D., too.
D. wants D. to feel sympathy for him.
D. is willing, in theory, to feel sympathy for almost anybody, but if you want to move D., you should try to be colder. (As Chekhov might say.)
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For people who count,
the BOLD NAMES,
or those aspiring to be,
there is no privacy
and they want it that way.

Jesus went to
The baseball
Game today

Jesus cheered for
Both teams

Jesus pleased
Both teams
Jesus upset
Both teams

Let’s knock off a less solemn poem
that perhaps someone can understand.

Uncruel February Sunday. Lovers or friends,
Moms and dads teach kids

to ride bicycles. Dogs chase dolphins
and Frisbees into the glass waves

A blind tariff
shines Papiamento tears
among the quiet quibbles
of faith, blue-white water
and small things.

Leah got up from the bed, walked over to the French windows and opened them. She stood, allowing her naked body to bathe in the light of the full moon surveying majestically from the cloudless sky. She looked down at her breasts, glowing white in the ethereal light and heard a voice announce: ‘All ecstasies end in this.’