. Marie Lecrivain
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Winter Solstice - LA Style I'm walking, framed by palm trees and my scarf lays easy across my shoulders. I shield my eyes against the glare filtered though partly cloudy skies. A crisp, cool wind blows through my undone hair - and the ghost of my mother's Minnesota heritage sweep along my bones. Years before, I opened the door to pallid morning under icicles hanging from eves of the old farm house. I tremor from damp creeping into every corner of my body, while shielding my eyes against the glare of a snowy field - and yearn for the blistering heat of my father's desert legacy. Here in the sun, where the coldest day is a spring thaw near the Artic Rim, I spy the voluptous woman wearing a tight red dress and veiled hat, her cupid's mouth curved upward to reveal the answer: Mother Nature isn't sleeping in the arms of Death - she's incognito in LA. We pass one other. With one wave of her hand, she snaps the two halves of me back together while she strolls down the Promenade. I am whole - and I hope- maybe, she'll hear my heartfelt, whispered thanks for the chance to grasp those halves of me and tie them into a loveknot. Query to Armin You have no right to smile - none of this is true; your fallen angel looks, your cheerful demeanor is a facade and mockery of my pain. There you reside, in crucible of shocking integrity - I begin to fathom what the moment was like for you, where all his secrets melted in your mouth, saliva breaking down the layers of mystery to pure molecular strands of truth. Did you make a game of it? Guess which sin was most delicious? Does theft taste like well-cooked veal? Do lies seduce the palate like well-aged brandy, or do they leave a brittle edge on the buds like aspertame? Was sex sweet and sour pork with Tsing-tsao beer and sake chasers - or merely a bowl of Lucky Charms and non-fat milk? And what happened after you kissed him goodnight? Did you go out in the backyard on random Thursdays for a noon-time chat with his bleached skull grinning at you from the hole in the fence? I want to know what it felt like to digest the truth of him a little at a time: piece by sacred piece passing through eager lips and merging at the atomic level, where you postulate an enhanced command of the modern language of consequence. You�ve deciphered the code of primordial yearning to consume what I love, take it into myself and make it my own. As you sit there, I wonder what kind of clarity you really possess, but in my eyes, those blessed - or cursed, as you are may never be able to teach me the real meaning of communion. Struggling It�s three in the morning. We�re sitting on your futon without a frame sharing the last Sapporo, and watching the shadows of trees sway in the windows when I notice it- like an afterthought- three faded, blue dots on the back of your hand at the juncture, between the thumb and forefinger. It reminds me of when I test a pen on my own hand to see if the ink is still good. I gesture with the beer bottle and ask," What�s that?" You declare," It�s for the struggle." and that�s all you say. I reflect on the laundry list of your life so far- scanty references to growing up in Cudahy, cruising through East LA, lock down in the Men�s Central Jail. The role of soon-to-be ex-husband thrust upon you by a cyclical bride, who took away your kids, her two kids from a second marriage and is back with her first husband. This apartment where the landlord said you weren�t allowed to put up any pictures or mark the walls, paintings from your son neatly stacked on your nightstand, or covering the fridge. I think about the barren look in your eyes when you�re inside me, the struggle I have to get you to open up, and talk to me, even just a little. The beer is gone. The shadows are still. Your tattooed hand absently strokes down the length of my spine. Where are you now? In another room, surrounded by bare walls and freaky shadows, with another version of me, Emptying beers and yourself into her compassionate arms? Is she watching the blue dots on your hand, through lids at half mast to hide the pain your hollow gestures incite? Are you still doing the same thing after all these years? Struggling to get away from love? Or just struggling to live? Marie is the publisher of an ezine which features Los Angelos poets, called Poetic Diversity, which also has its February issue just out. Main Page
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