Oooh, I liked it too – and not just because you used a bunch of my words. (Where’s “cork”? 
)
Disclaimer: I am just replying in terms of how -I- would rearrange things. I am only an undergraduate student, I am just pushing the edges a bit. All comments are weird. Some are just to say “this is what I am thinking” so you get the reader-response. Also a touch of formalist critique
Ignore the not-so-idented parts. I indented them in the message but SDMB put them all the way at the left again. Thanks.
REUNION
For that brief week in December, the household
pinwheeled around the kitchen, the unpolished kitchen table
I like the word brief so soon. It suggests something to the reader, a tone that will be continued throughout the piece. I also like how “the household” pinwheeled, almost as if the house did, more than the occupants. The repititon of two the’s so close to one another might be an issue, if you leave it be; perhaps that unpolished kitchen table. Emphasis would also allow for kitchen to be repeated twice, as if the reader is zeroing in on the scene. [far away, then camera zooms in]
*filled with food—persimmon pudding wrapped in foil,
loaves of cheap sliced bread, a single blue-striped
bowl filled with improbable, sweet cherries. *
The word cheap stands out to me. Do you want it to stand out so harshly to the reader? Is it a critique of the family as a whole, as in on the surface they are friendly, but amiablility only goes so deep? However this is disccounted in the rest of the poem, and also by the sweet cherries (a nice introduction to when you use virginity as a faint subject later on). I also like the sounds in this part – the p’s and s’s particularly.
* Everyone
was home—my brother back from the Army, so shorn
that he became a stranger when he slept, my sister
back from a ruined and undiscussed marriage, even
the cousins from Butte arrived to sleep on the floor
of my bedroom. *
Here, the camera that zooms in pans out only slightly to encompass all the people that exist within this tiny space. The statement about the ruined and undiscussed marriage seems so blunt; I would expect such a topic to have a more evasive place in this poem – though perhaps the narrator is blunt and quick to change the topi as well. The cousins part seems to physically imply a distance between the narrator them; the narrator is slightly above them. Not in a proud sense, exactly. There is a tone of luck implied, that the narrator was lucky enough to get them to come, and lucky enough to get them to accept his/her meager offerings.
Also the stranger comment tells me perhaps that he might be having nightmares? Or that maybe his sleep is too light, and he awakens at every noise? So there is still tension in this part of the poem, though it is quiet and almost invisible.
*We talked late into the darkness, feeling
the high angled ceiling of my upstairs room float
further into rolling darkness as the house grew quieter
around us. *
I like the sense of community that is produced in this section, even as the darkness and silence threatened to displace is. The ceiling could also be a metaphor for their dreams and aspirations – as in, when someone tells you that you can have any star in the sky; the ceiling rising higher and higher suggests a positive connatation.
* Outside, the moon was huge. Outside, the bone-
white sycamores stretched toward something no one,
not even Leslie, the witchy one, could discern. We wrote
terrible poetry about love, and wept as we whispered it aloud. *
The music of the sounds speaks to me in this part, with the w’s and the s’s. Mostly the long o’s, which create tension when used (when you produce the o sound your mouth moves in a tense/wailing motion). I am not sure how much I like the bluntless of the first line; but I am mostly willing to accept your pregorative (which is good, because that means I trust the narrator first and the poet as a secondary figure). It is a common theme that the outside is large and looming; the inability to truly understand that which we do not know is a universal fear that the reader will easily understand. Also, I get this neat feeling as the narrator speaks of reciting poetry, because you get the image-within-the-image effect of the reader reading this poem about them reading those poems – etc.
On the last night, we decided that we were all still
virgins. Technically, at least—even Karen. Early
the next morning, I woke to my lie and sleepy (<- grammar?)*
warmth of my cousin Lisa against my back*
Just as the narrator announces that it is the last night, so too does the narrator announce the coming end of the poem. It is with a slightly wavering strength that they decide regarding the viriginity – and it is something they pull back slightly, as if they need more time to think of it. Such is the human race.
* —Lisa,
who in eighth grade had broken the nose of a boy
who shoved his hand up her dress. Had I ever
been brave? I couldn’t remember. *
A seemingly abrupt change that is placed in focus by the narrator’s question to their own self. Their is also their realization and accept of the human quirk of forgetting memories.
* Outside,
the early light caught on shards of river ice, and
a part of me still stood
stunned and bleeding on a wooded riverbank.*
The words shards instantly push the reader into the tense position again, especically with the narrator bleeding and stunned two lines down. Only a part of them still stands – which can be taken positively or negatively depending on which way you look at those two lines of poetry. Almost as if he/she was struck by the ice, and cut. I like the descriptor of ‘wooded’ for riverbank. Different.
*In my warm, sleeping room I watched the shadows
slip to the floor, the last day of safety beginning
to wane, I whispered to my own pale face
reflected in the mirror, come back,
come back, I need you.
The irony in the warmth of the room lies in the fact that the humans are still sleeping – which could show a state of ignorance or something equally grave. However the narrator is awake, and that state of being doesn’t seem to be much prettier, with him/her watching the shadows/darkness. Intersting that as the shadows slip to the floor, the safety wanes. (Or do the shadows get lower as the sun comes up? I do not know the techniqualities.) Just that ‘slips’ is like the shadows are suddenly losing the fight, i.e., we made a slip-up, but the safety is also waning.
Again, the last few lines are introspective both in regards of the narrator and the human kind as a whole. The narrator needs their past, and the humans need themselves as a whole, as one group of people striving to exist all at the same time.
I have to go. I think I’m keeping my roommate up with my typing. 
Peace 
/S
Quicky two liner:
I love the shards of your tendrils/
eating at my rutabaga soul
Your rutabaga soul tastes really good broiled with a little olive oil. 
Bounce
A linen tongue beckoned me
Into a warm fresh mouth.
Within, pocked, shiny walls
Vaulted above to meet
In calm cathedral arch.
Here I was at peace
In my soft cave.
To sleep.
Click.
My reverie turns.
Cloth above me pulls me down.
Steel below me pulls me up.
I tumble. Bounce.
Stifling breezes
Breathe hot on my skin.
I like three dimensions
But now I have an unwanted
Rotational axis.
Behind a turning porthole
In a glass and steel prison.
I am a feline goldfish.
On the inside looking out,
I should be on the outside looking in.
Lucky I have nine lives.
Gaaaah!!! [bold]jjim[/bold], I gotta hand it to you…that is brilliant. I’m actually quite impressed.
(Man, I am never going to hear the end of that little episode, am I?)
Aw shucks, it isn’t. I can do parody in about five minutes like that; not so good at genuine stuff. What you posted is, however.
I’m old fashioned. Poems should rhyme:
The boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but he had fled.
His Mum had told him what to do,
But he’d forgotten what she said.
I prefer the Milligan version of that poem:
The boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but he had fled.
Stupid twit.
An Ode To Decay, by Cartooniverse.
Thine wraithful leaves are veined, translucent in the corpulent morning sun.
Decaying tendrils which once ached to grow corpulent beneath the affectionate caresses of light.
How can one quantify such a love for such a vegetable? When lost and torn asunder, the fragile tendril(s) gone to rot amongst the pottery shards in the side patch, one weeps a vale of vegetarian tears for the stifled soul, turned and gone back to soil from whence it came.
The loss is inestimable…and complete.