Maggie Glover

“THAT BAG IS SICK IN THE HEAD!”: A SONNET FOR MARC JACOBS

In your favorite logo T, in my favorite garish purple,
you roll your sweet-doped mouth over those smoky M’s—
More Muscle Milk!—oh, we both have our riddles:
my poems, your pantsuits: The wrong side is the right side!
Refresh me & my stubborn puff; my sweaters desire
your pins & needles: an alligator pattern, bells & bells.
We’ll Hustle to screwy Pachabel, Sofia will film from afar
(if they throw hams our way, what can we do?) My Grunge Prince,
wear that crisp white collar & I’ll be your bluebird-doll,
your little tattoo—even wear your glam-disco-man shoe,
bleach stars & tea-dye purses, strap on your paper wings & spring
along the roof, shouting: “Store opening in London!”
while you, Sweet Trend-Bucker, laugh and sing:
Let’s throw another sparkle-ball into the wind!

Sunday Before Grocery Shopping

The cat dips into the aquarium, paws
the old goldfish and you let her,
for a little while, pushing
another cold forkful of eggs
into your mouth. This is how you govern
your body, this and oily vitamins,
frequent trips to the Marine Park,
quick naps on the couch. You are tired
of waiting for me and I am tired
of waiting, hunched in the yard,
both hands in the garden, watering
the places where something could grow
if I thumbed them right, the hose quivering
in the grass like the snakes
we are both afraid of:
you, of their movement,
me, of their bite.