My family is a major gift-giving family. Each one of us has secret drawers and darkest closet corners where we stash presents months in advance for birthdays and holidays. When I first started doing freelance journalism, I wrote lots of gift-guide stories and I still have a reputation as being the go-to-girl for gifts. By my standards, a great gift is something that the recipient would have been unlikely to find or buy for themselves and its dominant quality should be delightfulness, not usefulness.
How Rare
The most multihued
orchid in the shop,
wide-eyed and freckled
blooms abundant, marvels
befitting how rare you are
to me.
On the slushy subway
I hold what’s growing in my bare
hands numb from not trusting mittens
to touch what’s so precious,
defending its dear vulnerability,
cellophane and ribbons inadequate
helmeting from oblivious elbows.
Those who notice
smile-nod gratitude for
this gift glimpse
sublime.
So Right, It’s Wrong
Sometimes I’m compelled to
buy something
obviously perfect
for an ex
the purchase as pointless as
sending mail to the dead or
decorating the Pharoah’s tomb
for his dubious afterlife.
The Real Love Poem
My real love poem dedicated to you
will never be published
hidden in our secret book
the one the tax man doesn’t see
undefiled by my careerist ego
no risk of pimping adoration
to seduce the big-deal editors
who reduce all multi-petal-ed miracles
to two-dimensional pressed flowers.
This real love poem worthy of you
no one else can know
the tone will echo your voice
the meter will match your heartbeat
the overall mood will recreate
your sleep-scented skin
as you nap in my lap
while I glare-shush the gawkers
as they attempt to gore us
with their pointed jealousy.
No, this poem is yours alone,
the purest present
I wouldn’t know to give
without you to inspire me.
