...........................................................................................................................................
The Poetry Of.
Marie Lecrivain.....................................
what I could not say: A poem for my father.
We're in your study, surrounded by the walls of bookshelves
you built for your beloved
with your own two hands,
when you say to me,
"I love you, Marie. Please forgive me."
Silence drags across my prickly skin-
knives of decisive moment.
"It doesn't matter," I said,
measuring my words, carefully,
on scales of diplomacy and immolation.
What else could I say?
Your body had signed its own death warrant.
There was no time.
And all the fights, the blows,
and the nasty words didn't matter in the face of
your execution.
What you'd like to hear
those words
stopped
At the bypass of my mouth portal.
Your decree,
our denial of the past,
and my anger-
seal my lips against your final request
that would give you some measure of peace.
Please-
forgive me, for holding out
against your last wish.
In this, I am truly your child.
But as you float happily in the ether,
I know you hear these words I now speak-
and I can feel your arms wrapped around me,
like when I was six,
And -
we were--
we were just--
Okay.
imprint
You left behind
one woolen hip
thrust toward the ceiling,
& a pair of cotton fists
tucked under an airy chin
that hold fast to a dream.
My longing curls
into the hills & vales
of your textured silhouette,
& I inhale your scent
before the morning breeze
absconds this last memento.
wing & lyre
On the last day,
she stands poised
between wing and lyre.
A childish hand
lays slack
within the messenger's grasp.
He observes the shift from
maiden to siren
as she curves
her body towards the bard,
answering the questions
conveyed by tender and uncertain strokes
with a gentle touch of her own.
