Poems by Elizabeth Iannaci ​

End of Romance
 
I don’t know how much time
there is. No one does. I’ll write
fast. Here, wind kicks up,
noncommittal. Dies. Kicks up
again. Weather isn’t obliged
to make up its mind, follow
a consistent path. It tacks.
Waits.                 Gusts.
I move a book onto the napkins
like I do, battening the hatches,
ensuring stability.           Again.
Still.          Recall the grandness
of it all:
Bossa Novas, summer nights, slow
dancing to Béseme Mucho, tenor sax drifting
from some Parisian alcove; midnights
sharing Jamocha Almond Fudge & coffee,
crying through stark images— 
passenger liner as it leaves Pépé le Moko,
behind; lingering shot—Cave of the Swimmers,
biplane low over desert,
yellow against amber expanse
Everything dies.     Even mountains.               Eventually.
Only tragic when it doesn’t die a natural death--
the end premature,
such potential         wasted,         unfinished:
shadowed figure left stunned,
alone on the dance floor, saxophone
bluesing            bleeding out
long          wavering              notes.



A Confusion of Flamingos
 
It’s a thing, like an exhalation
of larks, or a witness of flowers--
orange poppies in a California
meadow, stretching upwards,
to face sunlight their one, guiding
principle. These neon gabblers
congregate in communities like
herons wearing Bird-of-Paradise
suits, a tangle of necks &
ankle-joints tied in seemingly
irrevocable knots, comforting
each other with honks,
grunts, squawks, gossip,
sound ricocheting, repelling,
almost deafening. Yet,
in flight they are
a winged sunset rising,
staining the sky vermillion,
the flock moving as one.
Look!
          Here there is no burn
scar.      No blame.

Elizabeth Iannaci is a widely published poet who grew up in the Los Angeles area in a time when acres of orange groves & strawberry fields lined the 10 freeway. She earned her Poetry MFA from Vermont College of Fine Arts, and is partially sighted, which may account for her preference for paisley over polka dots. Her work appeared recently in Women in a Golden State, Midwestern Miscellany, and Discretionary Love, among others. Her latest chapbook is The Virgin Turtle Light Show: Spring, 1968 (Latitude 34 Press).

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