pesbo since 2005.

Pearl Pirie’s book lists, interviews, event write-ups, poems and more.

after the door slams

hall mirrors face themselves
full in the glass, expressionless
as whisky, with not a voice
to hoarse around ideas with, flashes
of flurried colors passed uncaptured
for future records to verify this

the frame rocks with no hand
to steady the swing. nailed
pendulums can’t fall and break
cyptic small hand of lead pencil
rubs the paint of the wall
in illegible proof of movement

bitter and turned cold

a dry rattle among raspberry canes rainsticks
against grasses, air, a puff-laugh escaping thoughts,
hairroots of hundred year elms motion quelled

blink at the bleak wet-denim-black
trunks shuddering stripped of leaves.
spring blossoms are ludicrous naive hope

yet poplar buds already have nubs swollen
reddening nervous system molecularly jittering,
tense, release, beneath snow crust, beneath

the frozen humus the shapes of roots
(that are spread ready) are an echo,
an aboveground silhouette of summer

the dormancy is thinner than voice,
hard edge levers choice to pace
their whetted lines to scraps of heat

to the pendulum swings of moon.
a viscous stickiness thins to liquid primed
– mid-winter strains to stay within its own confines

scraped hickey of dirt, thin flake of frozen not
inert, bold voles stroll the airspace snatching
beetles flipping to back of tongue, air humid enough

to be wrung. Impossible is an imp of bull bones
a trickster crow that knows when all is lost
there is no lost place things go. all is here.

feel the memory of the climb, dust-colored bellyhair
black squirrels toenails leave marks on trunk’s bark
comic affrontery charms bloodthirst to swooning coos

Summer never left. It was only playing peek-a-boo
A scare, a one-sided fun. It is down under, wide-eyed
tense to be uncovered, beside the boiler, limp asleep.

Numbers Just Don't

Numbers Just don’t stick
in my head. Numbers
trip in my head, tumble,
collide, a tangled tango
of 11 and crossed 7s.
They jive but not well
switching positions, shifting
to cough-sobre, the suddenly
self-conscious lines
try to rebutton each other,
blink up with near-confident smiles
in a dishevelled, hastily reassembled,
to presentable state,
but obviously
to everyone else, wrong

If I were given a 2H pencil

If I were given a 2H pencil

and asked to sketch what I saw of you
it would frustrate me to have to crosshatch
to capture the shadows of your smooth face
between the stubble of your chin and the arch
below the apples of your cheeks.

although I would be gentle with my lightest touch
it would pain me to stroke lines onto your lips which
I am sure are petal soft. I would be anguished
over your eyelashes. How could I ask a viewer
to believe they are that thick, that long,

if I could draw in the fleeting fawn of your eyes
people would think I’m trying to exaggerate
ludicrously, but even then if wouldn’t be
more than an onion paper thin portion of your beauty.
Will your heart, your confidence elude my hand?

Gelato Shop

Gelato Shop

At this, the coldest of cold buffets,
a man asks if there is any ice cream.
The serving lady spreads her hands
says it all is, looking as if she is
trying not to look at him like the
thicker than cream man she clearly
thinks he is. He rephrases, Not sherbet?

No sir. Only sorbet and gelato.
No ice cream at all then? he asks.
She sets to task, her lip a firm line
explaining differences away. 40 flavors
of ice cream, sir, gelato just Italian
for ice cream, same-same. Persuasion is
proffered by tiny sample spoon

palate cooling, shoulders sinking
into the hammock of collar bones,
goosebumps set up a civilization
of unflagged flagpoles of surrender
to the mad rush to flavor, savor
soursop and ginger flown to nap
in the cooling tree top with Bacio,
spooning, nesting, pressing,
in a small waxed paper cup
bailed out, scraped and sucked
a melding new flavored rivermelt
knuckles, chin and nose sticky
with convincing that those are
by any name worth, a vacation
for pocketchange.