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Three Poems from Paul Hostovsky

 

To a Writer

I love your verbs.
I love your adverbs.
I love your abs.
The musculature
of your guts.
I hate your guts.
You send me
to the dictionary,
which I love.
The way your I’s
reflect
my own deepest
darkest first person
is uncanny.
I can’t get you out of
your short stories
and into my poem.
But I can try.
I love your choices,
the way they ripple,
and push
every edge,
the way they branch
and brachiate,
each choice like
a horse chestnut
with its own pair
of seed-leaves inside,
like testicles,
containing whole
forests.




To Love

The cardiac muscle is self-contracting,
autonomic, involuntary. In other words,
you can’t love on demand. So the command
to love, that infamous injunction, is a little
problematic, isn’t it? Love is a striped thing,
a striated muscle of the heart. And in spite of
what you learned in grammar school, to love
is a verb of being. To love is not an act; it’s a way
of being in the world, contracting rhythmically
over a lifetime, whether you wanted to or not.




Making Love

Some of us never
grow wholly comfortable
doing it. It almost feels
like the blind trying
to sign their names
on the signature line—
we need a hand to
guide our hand to
where they say the ultimate
expression of who we are
is. And sometimes when it’s done,
our lovers take back the pen,
and the paper, eyeing it
a little doubtfully,
and studying the sad mark
that is ours, as though
trying to decide
if it’s acceptable.




Paul Hostovsky's latest book of poems is Hurt Into Beauty (FutureCycle Press, 2012). To read more of his work, visit him at www.paulhostovsky.com


                                                                            
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