Matthew
Scott LaPierre
Matthew received his B.A. from Colby College in 1990 and an
MFA from the University of Massachusetts Amherst in 1993. He
has lived in Portland since 1993, where he manages the commercial
loan underwriting department for a local Bank. He has a wife
of three years and two young daughters. (you
can reach Matt at: mattlapierre2@yahoo.com)
Gravity
Leaves fell
with grace
in the face of gravity.
This was unusual
October weather,
maybe the last
warm day of the year.
How many
times
was I sarcastic
instead of honest,
intelligent
instead of thoughtful,
logical
instead of passionate?
I found
you
planting winter bulbs.
I spoke and fell.
You pulled me in.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Walking
the Brook
Chickadees
bravely
called their names
from the
pines.
Some of us must
live quieter
lives.
The brook had no name,
was on no
map.
I let my name
fall like
a leaf
into the water.
It was carried
away.
Anonymous
as any raindrop,
I walked the brook.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Come Home
The hour
birds gathered
to sing themselves asleep.
We sat on
the porch
naming each song.
When a dog
barked
there's no intruder,
someone's
come home.
The day had been bright,
longer than
a lifetime.
Sundown's still,
like all's
held
in gentle hands.
A mother
called home her son.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Lovers
On the unfinished
cabin walls
names of couples were circled by lop-
sided hearts. Some were dated
and decades old. How many couples
were still married?
My parents' divorce was twice
the length of their marriage,
Anne's father had died prematurely.
Could we expect to walk away
from each other one day?
Anne undressed.
Even in mid-winter she had cinnamon skin.
I washed her back and feet,
wrote our names on the highest beam.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
13th Summer
He stole
handfuls of change
from his mother's purse,
felt like a pirate weighed down
with pocketfuls of gold plundered
from an oppressive queen.
He bought speed
after failing a science test.
The pills looked like breath mints,
were gunpowder in his veins.
His heart became a firecracker.
He drank vodka, quit baseball, met Betsy.
When he touched the long scars
running up her inner thighs she
flinched like he'd scratched her.
He said the scars were beautiful.
She knew he was a liar.
They French-kissed until their jaws ached.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
