Gloria I
When I stepped right, he
stepped left, counterpose
and moving
in a single direction.
What faces something
is its opposite.
I put out my right hand, as in
stop. He put out his left.
His friends, snickering.
If I had moved, we would have
touched. I could feel his
slender proximity.
A body exists
in relation. Our bodies
cannot occupy
the same mental space.
Laughter. He stepped
aside. I walked away,
completely. He is
a blank
that exists
because I move past him.
Gloria II
You do not know
violence
dressed up in speech
and not-speech. I am
background
in no story: no shiny silver
car, no striking tree
with green skirt
lifted over its head.
Your anger at the boys
when I tell you
is why I do not tell you.
Brown forearm-sinews tense
when you lift the pot.
Perfect couple:
rice and beans.
Our walkup stifled
by green. Too hot
for birdsong, outside
and in. When I
slide open the window
I make a double silence
single.
Gloria III
To be cut off
mid—
as a mistress’s
head
by a wearied king.
No hearing.
Eek,
cries the mirrored closet door.
One body cannot exist
in two spaces. If I am
cut off, I grow
elsewhere, where
I may never need
this worried,
flower-
patterned dress.
An empty duffel brims
potential.
While sunlight chatters
on petals and stems,
an unseen
silkworm
splits
its energy
into 1,000 different threads.
Paul Hlava's poems have been published in Narrative, Gulf Coast, BOMB, the PEN Poetry Series, among other journals and newspapers and have been nominated for the Pushcart. He holds an MFA from New York University, and a BA from UC Riverside.