j a m e s    b e l f l o w e r

Peppers

from Commuter

Peppers

She'sraging like a piston andfuckisthewordthat like a fire
roves on a splat of lead before a feather of dust and
a song from the sickle on the throat
on the knuckle of the bare ring finger below a rushing dicing of peppers that 
witheredonstuccoinahaloofredbecause
her back has risen in a visor for the wall, covering
that it'sherturntoallrunupthedoorallerectallsmearingallglazingand
shot
and hooked wide, round the Virgin
with the palms of a cherry
                                              a whistled orbit
                                              a blackrightangleloweringinthehandthanabagofskin
                                              ontheflippinghaloofthepowderedglass becomes
crushed under the crosshairs of the windowflowing
fromthebag like peppers so when you come 
bring an ivory hood to cover the knuckle of the bare ring finger from a rushing splashing of peppers
thatwitheronmarbleinapuddleofred when you come with empty pockets and a plate of hope washed
like hands

next

from Commuter

excavated
chambers beneath the arena floor curving back from her feet
and thin decaying        top ridges of remaining stone walls 
            met

of the Colosseum in the photo
It is 
smile 

            hers

*           *           *

aligned
with Saint Peter’s Basilica

the fountain at my left the photgraphs right
dwarfs me

floating
like a plumb line weight, large
as the spire

reaches
above the cropped

I remember the heavy knife in my right (your left)
pocket

The long line of people being frisked
 
*           *           *

Neither of us in the photo of Christ’s index phalanx.

            a blur across the reflexive


            try, or I will to remember the face
            between the few tender 
            bones

            sifted do you or do
            I
            know now who?

*           *           *

I smile
as if Stan Laurel

the room was smaller than either
believed

we kept the windows open
 
*           *           *

set the juice on the cold sill
should be cold by morning

*           *           *

you were so sick
for 3 days

so we took a picture.
the protrusion of you 
on the bed a brass half
of a circle mounted
midway up the wall and the quarter
of bulb

overflowing 

*           *           *

Our Orangina
on the sill

is a knob

on the rectangles
of the Hibiscus
hotel

next

JAMES BELFLOWER holds a Bachelor’s degree in Music from Arizona State University and is a Master’s Candidate in Creative Writing at University of Colorado at Boulder. His poetry appeared in or is forthcoming from: 26, First Intensity, Phoebe, and The Banyan Review among others. His reviews have recently appeared or are forthcoming in Octopus, New Review of Literature and Xantippe, and he is a regular reviewer for Barrow Street and First Intensity. James’ awards include: The Banyan Review Poetry Competition Finalist, two Jovanavich Awards for his manuscripts Friend of Mies van der Rohe and Site, as well as honorable mention in the Milton Dorfman Poetry competition.  He is currently working on a collaborative project with J. Michael Martinez and Anne Heide entitled, “The Care With Which There Is.”