........................................................................................................
The Poetry Of...
Marie Lecrivain...............................................
rodin's garden
(for william)
the leaves are stained with
sunlight that filters down
& highlights the
sylvan robes
of an avian choir
even my hand
drifting across the
space of this page
becomes
sanctified
a breeze
genuflects
between
columns of birches
so as not to
disturb
the bronze patrons
frozen in complicity
the choir trills
a hallelujah
the trees whisper
a paternoster
& the saving grace
of humility
lays a cool hand
upon my brow
to acknowledge
& shed a tear for the
waning majesty of
our natural
collective condition
spin cycle
(to aire)
We can see our chaos in motion - Dead Can Dance
Today we strive to adapt
our rhythms to
the synchronization of
of the laundromat;
to my right an abuelita escorts
a rusty cart of family vestments
from wash to dry;
to my left
my skittish friend inscribes
her fragmented life into her journal, & I...
crank up the volume
of my ipod to drown out
the threatening undercurrent
of muted conversations & spin cycles.
I dodge the vacant stare
of a vagrant; his decrepitude
accelerates my heartbeat. The abuelita
tries to scrye the future
in the stripes of a baby blanket
before placing it into a dryer & my friend...
weighs the information
from her PDA against
the truth of her memory
as worry lines deepen
around her eyes.
The shrunken baby blanket
is neatly folded
& then dismissed
to the bottom of a laundry bag. A
forgotten pair of slipper socks
re-emerges to cheer my companion...
but the merlot stain on my skirt
from last week�s one night stand
still mocks me, despite my copious use
of color safe bleach.
christmas on comey avenue
Here a mid-morning pewter sky
is segmented by telephone wires
& there are children playing
keep away in the street.
A steaming cup of tea
bubbles with serenity,
while an argument
rumbles beneath my window.
A rising tenor travels along
a current of notes
& my cat yowls
for her next meal.
My desire grabs onto
the talisman of your name,
& the last vestige of me
is banished from your mind.
a poem only a mother could love
"If we hadn't learned to read, we might still have been bearing
children in ignorance and that I believe was the happiest life after all."
.............................................................................................. - Virginia Woolf/A Society
My children are monsters
Each time I try
to alter the genetics
with the porcelain of Shakespeare
the melancholy of St. Millay
& the vision of Rilke
my muse
armed with a steak knife &
a shoe horn
scrambles the embryo
when I am not looking
My children emerge
from the birth canal with
twisted limbs
scabrous flesh
laser beam eyes
Bukowski noses
& Trakl tongues
They lumber through the world
with aching hearts &
heads held high
shunning polite society &
crashing open mics
seeking the one
with open arms
who will embrace a
wracked & ruined frame
sing a lullaby &
press the hoary head against
a forgiving breast
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