Corey Mesler

Corazón

Liberal heart, stuck
accelerator, grease monkey,
keep beating.
At night, when I lie in liquid
sheets, cool as pearls, 
I detect your unrest.
Dull pain like a paradiddle,
speaking my name in whispers,
Eunuch, Daphnis, Profligate.
I wake to sweet
visions and your black,
rataplan rhythm. 
My prayersong. 

At the Wolf’s Booksigning

The usual crowd showed up,
the hungry crowd
that insists on its poetry straight up,
as broken prose. The wolf,
looking suave in his red blazer,
warmed his pen up
in the mouth of a virgin. He had
an idea for a new book
right in the middle of the party. Every-
one stopped and waited
politely as he got down on all fours
and began to bay at
the glittering disco ball, which had
been a last minute idea
by Mrs. Patina, a brainstorm really. 
Later the line snaked
around the store, in and out of shelves
of novels written by men
and women of shimmering poise and
courage. The wolf’s book,
Howl Too, was selling like water.
Everyone was happy for the wolf, for
his success, and, finally, for the things
he taught us about thirst and being.