Kirsten Dunst

I sing of you,
Kirsten Dunst,
and your dark blonde image;

recall you tweaking me
in the vampire movie —
how did they get a little girl

to be that ravishing,
and what does it mean that
I noticed?

As a cheerleader you were
exactly as I imagined you would be,
like the girl I saw swimming

down the beach from where I fished
in high school,
and I reeled in the pickerel

knowing that you’d never be
mine, and I threw the fish back
in jealous anger.

In the superhero movie
you were perfect and unafraid
of the freaks who surrounded you,

and I began to have hope —
until I heard that out of character you were dating
the supermen around you and not the freaks.

Kirsten Dunst, those are all of the movies
I’ve seen with you in them. Maybe
you’ve made more, maybe not. Maybe

the kid in the coffee house
who insisted you were the sister
of that guy in Limp Bizkit

was right, maybe not. Maybe I’ve never really
been in love with you
and your wicked eyes. But it takes a village

to smother a child, and I think back to you
vamping for the villain
when you were so young, and I wonder

that I was so easily suckered myself,
that I dislike blondes but stop to stare
at you on a magazine cover, that I think I know

your every mood and move
without stepping inside a theater, that the village
makes us think you are someone we should know.

Can I demand
joy
of the universe?

Can I imagine
myself
into an ecstasy?

Can I say that
this is not perfect?
Can I lie about God?

Can you look me in the eye
and tell me I don’t know
happiness when I see it?

I see it.
I am not afraid of it now.
Can I be unfraid long enough

to take it, hold it close,
deathless,
until I lose myself inside?

he thinks Sunday
is something
like a chance for love

thinks something
like not knowing what it means
to be in love, or about love not being an answer,
though it is not a question either, more a punctuation mark
in a long sentence, and something about it being
a way of knowing the difference between
stretches of encumbrance and moments of freedom

something like flight

something like a woman on stage
opening herself like an envelope
never mailed
something like postage due

something like understanding eyes
and a whiff of memory

something like the way
he sits on the stool
and after four drinks
sneaks a peek
into the strippers’ dressing room

something like grasping
for someone else’s
sanctuary
something he thinks he’s been given
by right of birth

something like a false idol
something he never had
something that disowned him
something he is ashamed of

something like the way he turns away
retreats to his car
drives the short way home

something like waking
from a just deferred thought
of home and knowing
it’s not likely to be recaptured

something like the dread that says
never go home

something like another sabbath
devoid of rest and sacrament

something like God
not having a bloody thing
to say to him
in the still of the car
after the engine
is turned off
and before
he opens the door