The Poetry Of.
Marie Lecrivain........................................
old maid
As you came through my window,
folding back wings that whisper secrets to no one,
I stared at myself in the mirror,
pretending it was a wishing well.
Wishing alabaster skin wasn't acquiring the patina
of weathered marble left in the rain,
that tears weren't so caustic where sorrow
deepens the line running from the edge of my eye
into the curve of my cheek, no longer plump
with youthful impropriety or pouty from lusty,
uncivilized assignations. I take heart, as your hand
takes ownership of a ripening breast
that welcomes the weight of feathery kisses
you bestow on its warmth, while the other hand
encompasses the fullness Time placed
on my hips and in the center of my womb.
Are you nothing but a dream? I'm afraid to awaken
alone, my aging self refracted in ripples
of the wishing well, mocking my desire,
spreading me to the edge of loneliness. My mouth
breathes out the inevitable question,
"Why do fairies drown themselves in merlot?"
Your wings fold back, whispering secrets to no one.
startled
The morning rain
opened a portal between
the world I inhabit
and the one I scrye in my dreams.
I caught a glimpse
of myself moving in tandem
across a swath of blue
and I wondered: Why she,
and not I, was
smiling.
tropic of obsession
Henry was despicable,
an affront to my budding feminist sensibilities.
A creep, an ass,
a prototype male,
but an Artist.
Maturity descended on me
when I first met this 'crazy cock',
as he surveyed the first half of his life
cocooned in working class wraps.
He engaged
in the late night struggle
to forge words to paper,
felt the knife against his throat,
and made a break for it.
I laughed as he fled to the Old World,
unapologetic for his empty pockets,
or cornucopia of ideas.
He descended into a baptism by fire;
her name felt bittersweet on his lips
as she gave her sex to him
in dark corners and under musty sheets.
The words Henry threw my way,
burned into me.
His honesty is now my touchstone.
I've lived his days of hunger, depression,
and hard-won dignity.
Henry,
I HEAR YOU!
I FEEL YOU!
I---wish I could’ve met you for real,
and not in the intimate, confessional settings
of your novels.
If I'd ever been your captive,
I would’ve been your lover.
Five minutes with you
are worth more
than a month of creature comfort.
Henry, you've awakened the impossible.
In testament to you
I reveal my soul,
Take a page from your book,
bleed myself into these words.
