Hugh Steinberg

Gifts

Everyone in graciousness. Everyone in rubies. As in a gift,
a gift because you have some. All up, then. Up with rubies.
Bracelets, parts of the body. Pleasurable as skin,
as black books and the love of space. Roundnesses, facets.
Black sheets, black locks of hair curling underneath you
like grass.  Maybe we feel respectable, maybe we give it up
because we’re so goodlooking. Could redefine space,
all kinds of room, could be bright red. Lips around a mouth,
and a mouth full of cake, maybe close your eyes and
count some, see how long you can let it pile. Be latinate,
be cursive, roccoco. Let it happen, have more life.  
Keep one in your belly button, just in case. Let me put my
mouth around it. What more could a young man want?

 

Hugh Steinberg’s poems have appeared most recently in Aught, Cue, Slope, No Tell Motel, elimae, 42opus and Fence, among others. He teaches in the writing program at California College of the Arts, and (along with Miles Durrance) is the editor of Freehand, a new journal devoted to handwritten work.

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