Published in Kimera.
Tuesday's Holy Form
The day
started out
big, white and open.
Full of familiar light and sense.
By noon, it was violet, and I could
no longer follow the shape of its outstretched torso,
so severe
was its gesture
of shutting eyes.
In The Dreamland Motel
we speak of miracles
waiting to be born
bells sewn into my heart
spacious distance
stands outside our borders
tender is its edge
we listen to the music
of our bones
pull the strings
fusing together
the soft light
and hard dark of loneliness
over and over again
Fish
Blue and lemon yellow pairings
waltz above castle turrets.
The great bogwood God
watches them through algae covered eyes.
Water flowers sway,
stones lay flat, pebbles are still.
Dead In Red
She did a swan dive
from the seventh floor.
I saw it through his eyes,
my veins stabbed hard
by the sick thrill.
Her, always in those sexy corsets
and shoes with the French heel.
Face reddened by a long day at the stove
I stand at the open window
imagining how her balloon flight heart
must have popped.
I picture her
laid out neatly
under the damp quilt of leaves and mud.
Her hips forever flat & still,
Eye sockets filling up with bugs.
©Tasha 2001
