After "My Last Duchess"

BROWNING

That’s my ex-boyfriend’s work you’re looking at.
He liked to make digital art; this tat-
Too—all my ink, in fact—began as files
On his computer. Bet they’d stretch for miles
If laid out end to end, all his designs.
Oh yes, they’re finely rendered, these few lines—
But never mind the tracery on my skin.
Tell me about yourself. Like, what’s your sin
Of choice? One’s vices mold one’s character,
I think, into such curious shapes. Incur
A few like mine then, since you claim you’ve none.
The worst of them? It’s jealousy: the sun
At midday burns no brighter than my rage
When I suspect a partner’s false. A sage
Guess, that, but no, this boyfriend didn’t cheat
On me; that’s not why we broke up. A treat
It might have been though, to have caught him out:
I rather like to rage and scream and shout.
Instead, I found myself fending off “I
Love you’s” till, to forestall more puppy eye-
S, I finally said it back: “I love you too—
So much I can’t quite bear it.” Right on cue
He kissed me like the world was burning up.
And then he set to with a will: my cup
Ran over many times that night, to put
The matter biblically. Ouch! That’s my foot.
Don’t worry, we’re all klutzes in a crowd.
Ha! Since you ask, yes, he was well-endowed.
Yes, very smart. His parents? Well, had we
Got married I’d have been spared in-laws; he
Was orphaned at thirteen. A car crash, yes,
You guessed it. No, thank God, he got the mess
Out of his system long before we met
And never fussed about his loss. What, debt?
No way. Impeccable, his finances.
He did read, yes. That poem about Cortez,
Or was it Homer—right, by Keats. His fav-
Orite, or one of them. Yes, you bet he gave
Great gifts (and head). No, I don’t mind at all,
Ask anything, however big or small.
Ah, that’s the million-dollar question. Truth
Is, I left him. — Oh hey, look, there’s a booth
Just opened up, let’s grab it. — Anyway,
Do stop apologizing, it’s okay:
You made the natural assumption. I’m
Not impressive, so how’d I catch this prime
Guy—just to dump him? I can’t speak to what
He saw in me: I’m pretty, kind of, but
I’d call myself a seven, tops. My ex,
Though, broke the scale. Just—one of those perplex-
Ing people standards don’t apply to, who
Don’t even know it, much less care—imbue-
D with excellences they’re as heedless of
As fish of water—yeah, you gotta love
The type, right? They should form a club and shine
Among themselves sequestered. Then—more wine?
You’re very welcome—we mere groundlings might
Pretend to quality. And yet, despite
My ex’s membership in that elite—
Or rather, different from the rest replete
With gifts—he didn’t make you feel compelled
To catalog your failings. He dispelled
Your insecurities—the opposite
Effect. Imperatives like being wit-
Ty, pretty, perfect, best, which motivate
Our daily doings—these just dissipat-
Ed in his presence. Alex—yes, his name—
Just was. Around him you forgot the game.
He radiated wholeness, centeredness,
And just by being gave you worthiness.
—I’m waxing over-eloquent, forgive
Me. But—exactly!! It’s one thing to live
A light, another to live with that light.
It blinded me. It burned me. With no night
To rest my sight, no blight however slight,
I, hollow-eyed, began to crave a fight.
I went big, that’s my style. I lied and said
I cheated. I concocted, stirred, and fed
Him quite the tale. He believed every word.
He took it calmly. Yes, I’d have preferred
Hysterics, anyone would, but I knew
Better than to expect a grand debut
Of temper even then and there. He asked
If he might borrow my car. “For air.” I masked
My irritation—Jaguars aren’t the best
Beginners’ car—said yes to his request—
Undressed and got in bed. Suffice to say,
I never saw that car again. Obey-
Ing traffic laws, apparently, is hard
To do when freshly broken up with. Charred,
Completely totaled, that poor car. Alex?
Wasn’t it clear? He died. Ha, the apex
Of my career as storyteller’s not
Tonight: the misdelivered punchline’s shot.
You guessed his parents’ crash, why not his own?
I see. Yes, movies give us plotlines sewn
Up neatly with a bow. We don’t expect
The same of life. In this case, the direct
Parallel between son’s and parents’ death
Arrests our sense that life’s not art. — Hey! Seth!
—I beg your pardon: that’s the friend I was
Early to meet. Like who? My God, he does!
A dead ringer, you’re right. Well, Cary Grant’s
Clone texted me to join him by those plants.
It’s been so lovely talking with you. Oh,
Sure! Have another look. It’s a tableau:
The angel sleeping, devils gather round.
The deity presides, aloof and crowned.

Alliteration and a three-beat meter

Galumphing alongside a limberer lad,
I encountered a cat on my careless trajectory.
Feet met feline with unfortunate force:
I fell with a “fuck!” and I felt so embarrassed.
But more was to matter than mortification
(Wounds and wailing and woe were waiting):
The cat had been crouched (or had couched?) at the top
Of a flight of some forty or fifty steep steps.
And so, downward, while damning the dastardly builder,
I fell and I fell and I fell and I fell and
Externally tumbling, internally grumbling
At cats, accursed whether couching or crouching—
At governing gravity grounding my mass—
At Newton who knew than nothing escapes
The centripetal triumph of trusty old G—
Not the stars in the sky nor the stars in the movies.
But no Hollywood hero so handsome and tall ever
Found himself falling till he flopped to a stop.
When I landed at last up I looked, and I saw
That the limberer lad was laughing and pointing.
I gingerly gestured🖕🏻but just for the form,
Philosophically setting aside all my suffering.
Cats are cute! Gravity is great!

Tanka

Luxuriant leaves
Purple and grace the plum tree.
They wave to the breeze.
I love them through my window,
But I mourn the short-lived blooms.