From the Fishouse

Jasbo Brown
I flashed tunes, grinning like a new hubcap.
My whistling camouflaged a kiss, riding

a struggle-buggy up from Huntsville
bound for the Southside rain that came and wet

puddle basins, made the flagstone finish jet.
Spunk is the surest horse this season, said she.

And Washington bought his teeth from slaves.
He taught us: smile and the world smiles with you.

Truong Chi
Fog banded the marsh beside
her window. Shaved
ice, pekoe tea. Enameled
finger softened by the crystal, she
could almost hear me sigh.

Could almost see my song still eddy,
voiceless, counter to the silken tide,
the river breaking silence, woken,
pages on the water where I died.

Sportin’ Life
Of
a Sunday
along Seventh, fit
to the gills
in herring-
bone, a mother-
of-pearl handled
wisely, thumbing
the fob pocket like
a Van Der Zee
dandy, flatted-
fifth, whiskey
neat, gone
struttin’

El Cipitio
Ever young with feet facing
west I face east.
My gift to husbands, horns
while vespers bud like cotton
between their lovers’

painted toes. She had
helped me wrap the gift. I
knotted her finger in the bow.