Calisthenics 1, Week 3

Butter I
Kathy Fagan

The doors of my town are yellow, like a canary.
It would melt if you tried to touch it.
Like mother love, it would burn your hand.
It could kill you.
Is how soft and how yellow--like Sandra Dee’s hair,
she married Mack the Knife.
Her hair like pale butter next to his full-fat
unsalted similes, pale beside true poetry
I’m told, but without them aren’t we a hard and sorry bunch?
Like unripe bananas. Like most all girls I wanted  to be.
Like her bright as a newborn chick.
Like a canary in a mine shaft.
Like satin in the grave.
The pale yellow things die first in my experience.
Easter the canaries of Woolworth's, the sign of the cross, out of the corner of my eye, I saw her make
as the motorcade passed slowly to our left,
how bracing these yellow doors are like a cool drink,
like someone with his thumb on your forehead.
like the light that hardly ever happens anymore,
every year about this time.



Butter II
Kathy Fagan

The doors of my town are yellow.
Like a canary, it would melt if you tried to touch it.
Like mother love, it would burn your hand.
It could kill you is how soft--
And how yellow like Sandra Dee’s hair.
She married Mack the Knife, her hair like
 pale butter next to his full-fat unsalted similes,
pale beside true poetry, I’m  told.
But without them aren’t we a hard and sorry bunch?
Like unripe bananas?
 like most--all girls--I wanted  to be?
like her bright as a newborn
chick like a canary in a mine
shaft like satin in the grave
the pale yellow things die first.
In my experience, Easter, the canaries of Woolworth’s, the sign of the cross
out of the corner of my eye I saw her make as the motorcade passed slowly to our left.
How bracing these  yellow doors are.
Like a cool drink.
 like someone with his thumb on your forehead.
 like the light that hardly ever happens anymore,
 every year about this time.

Now we'll switch word order.


Butter III

The doors of my town are like a yellow canary,
would melt it if you tried to touch it like mother love.
It would burn your hand, it could kill you.
How soft and how yellow like Sandra Dee’s hair. Is she married?
 Mack the Knife, her hair like pale butter
 next to his full-fat unsalted similes
I’m told pale beside true poetry but without them--
a hard and sorry bunch. Aren't we like
ripe bananas, like all girls?
I wanted most to be like her.
Bright as a newborn chick, like a canary.
In a mine shaft like yellow satin in the grave.
the pale things die first.
In my experience  I saw her make Easter, the canaries of Woolworth’s,
 the sign of the cross out of the corner of my eye.
As the motorcade passed slowly to our left, how bracing,
these yellow doors are like a cool drink.
Like someone with his thumb on your forehead.
Like the light that hardly ever happens anymore.
Every year about this time.

Butter IV

My town doors are the yellow of a canary,
like it would melt if you tried to touch it.
It would burn your hand like mother love.
It is how soft and how yellow? It could kill you
 like Sandra Dee’s hair--she married Mack the Knife.
 like pale butter her hair next to his full-fat.
 Unsalted similes pale beside true poetry.
 But without them I'm told we aren't a hard and sorry
 bunch, like all unripe bananas.
 I wanted to be like most girls, like a newborn chick
bright like a canary in a mine as her shaft,
like satin in the grave.
The pale, yellow things die first in my experience: of Easter,
the canaries, the Woolsworth's sign of the cross are out of the corner of my eye.
I saw her make these yellow doors, as the motorcade passed slowly to our left.
how bracing, like a cool drink. Someone with his thumb on your forehead
like the light that hardly ever happens anymore,
like every year about this time