Lyn Lifshin: Two Poems
THE WOMAN WHO CANNED HANDS, SOMETIMES FINGERS
As if to always
have a supply,
have them on
hand. Fingers
to calm, hold
her. She could
have pickled a
husband's fists
as a reminder, a
warning or put
up lovers' fingers
in salt and dill
to open when snow
banked the door.
Her father never
touched her, her
mother held on
so tight there
are claw marks.
Then there were
light fingered
men who worked
fast in gloves
and left no trace.
Sometimes she put
skin peeled from
a hand in jars
like souvenirs
of snakes who
left what they
were behind them
or perfume bottles
only an amber
stain lingers
in from what
was sweet
HE'S INTO THE HUNT, THE STRANGE
a woman who was a
man but still
cradles the nub
of a penis. He
wants to explore,
he's nervous as
someone disassembling
a bomb. He's on the
edge, he smells her
perfume, her lips
opening, a safari in
to something new
He licks her skin,
moves toward the
borderlands of
silk that rise
toward him revealing
as her hips arch
that relic
of when she's been
a him, not what it was
but a shadow of itself
coiled in the nest it
used to soar from
Lyn Lifshin is probably one of the most widely published poets on the planet. Her many collections include Upstate
Madonna Poems, The Mercurochrome Sun Poems, The Doctor Poems, Kiss the Skin Off, Blue Tattoo, and her new
book, Before It's Light.
