Tag: @mlhdouglas

When a woman hits on you in a bookstore,

Vandal Poem of the Day: April 3, 2018

by Mitchell L.H. Douglas
the world
comes together. Different
than supermarket browsing,
a lean & linger over a patch
of shriveling strawberries, the way
you took 10 minutes agonizing
over the freshest batch of kale
when your daily plate
is bread &  potatoes. No,
these are conscious decisions,
mind taut & angular, a weapon
w/many edges. Not a dull cleaving
before the butcher’s counter—
this     is serious.
& after the third time
she walks by the poetry aisle
where you laugh aloud about
[insert cool name here] she
approaches, basket brimming
w/Hurston, Baldwin, Larsen,
& a book of computer coding
you would pretend to understand
on any blessed night. “I was the one
from the parking lot, the one
who smiled when you walked in,”
she says,  & you
are alert. Alive.
from dying in the scarecrow’s armsFind it in the library
Copyright © Persea Books 2018
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of Persea Books.

Persist

Vandal Poem of the Day: April 1, 2018

by Mitchell L.H. Douglas
I.
She plants the first kiss
in the back of a taxi, cabbie
craning his neck, eyes in rearview
to catch the warm press of lips.
We run
from cab to night, capital
breath pinning us to the hip
of One Way & DON’T
WALK, signs blinking black
surrender as we stand
in more eyes, the whip
of wind,
kiss again. Ready
for knees, the kneel
& spin of our steal—
away song, I stop her
in winter’s thaw, chirp
I love you
before feet rush
our bodies indoors
to corner tables
& candlelight.
Yes,
you do
she laughs, & I
lose my coat,
get acquainted
w/cold.
from dying in the scarecrow’s armsFind it in the library
Copyright © Persea Books 2018
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of Persea Books.

The Illusion of Hips

Vandal Poem of the Day: March 31, 2018

by Mitchell L.H. Douglas

after Lucille Clifton

Caught in the angle of sun & slight breeze, her skirt, melon, balloons. This, she says, is for the illusion of hips, but she needs nothing to make her more. Petal & stem, hair like a crown of baby’s breath falling to her shoulders, sweet rain. Born in Buffalo, she studied @ the same high school as Ms. Lucille, which tells me she could be a poet by osmosis, a good one even (something in the water). Please forgive me, I am trying to describe beauty, inner & outer, & isn’t that always the trouble: the risk of walking in stale words? I am trying not to be that poet, I am trying to impart honor, & I will be successful when I mention that after talking about the hips she doesn’t have, she smiles like a new world, & you nod your head know exactly what I mean.

from dying in the scarecrow’s armsFind it in the library