"I Love You Sweatheart"

Joseph Stella

Old Brooklyn Bridge

"I Love You Sweatheart"

A man risked his life to write the words.

A man hung upside down (an idiot friend

holding his legs?) with spray paint

to write the words on a girder fifty feet above

a highway. And his beloved,

the next morning driving to work...?

His words are not (meant to be) so unique.

Does she recognize his handwriting?

Did he hint to her at her doorstep the night before

of "something special, darling, tomorrow"?

And did he call her at work

expecting her to faint with delight

at his celebration of her, his passion, his risk?

She will know I love her now,

the world will know my love for her!

A man risked his life to write the world.

Love is like this at the bone, we hope, love

is like this, Sweatheart, all sore and dumb

and dangerous, ignited, blessed--always,

regardless, no exceptions,

always in blazing matters like these: blessed.

~ Thomas Lux ~

Plague Victims Catapulted Over Walls Into Besieged City

Arnold Böcklin

The Peste

Plague Victims Catapulted

Over Walls Into Besieged City

Early germ

warfare. The dead

hurled this way look like wheels

in the sky. Look: there goes

Larry the Shoemaker, barefoot, over the wall,

and Mary Sausage Stuffer, see how she flies,

and the Hatter twins, both at once, soar

over the parapet, little Tommy's elbow bent

as if in a salute,

and his sister, Mathilde, she follows him,

arms outstretched, through the air,

just as she did

on earth.

~ Thomas Lux ~

Lucky

Francisco de Goya

A Butcher’s Counter

Lucky

One sweet pound of filet mignon

sizzles on the roadside. Let's say a hundred yards below

the buzzard. The buzzard

sees no cars or other buzzards

between the mountain range due north

and the horizon to the south

and across the desert west and east

no other creature's nose leads him to this feast.

The buzzard's eyes are built for this: he can see the filet's raw

and he likes the sprig

of parsley in this brown and dusty place.

No abdomens to open here before he eats.

No tearing, slashing with his beak,

no offal-wading

to pick and rip the softest parts.

He does not need to threaten or screech

to keep the other buzzards from his meat.

He circles slowly down,

not a flap, not a shiver in his wide wings,

and lands before his dinner, an especially lucky buzzard,

who bends his neck to pray, then eats.

~ Thomas Lux ~