Cut through the pallid skin of the fresh corpse of winter. Bleed beginnings.
The close of winter is a silent night, still darkness giving in to a vibrant day.
Dying frost. Awakening Blooms. Welcome to a new world.
Sweet, the scent of birdsong and blue.
In the movies, this is where the newborn enters the scene.
The dawn light breaks on pale pink, the bright call
of miles to go before I sleep.
I swear it’s too hot for this time of year.
Venus, why bring love in Spring if it dies in winter?
Dying minus the end equals resurrection.
You know, I really love it when you pretend
that I don’t exist.
You climbed out of your car,
alone in the grocery store parking lot.
We made eye contact,
I almost dropped my bag of eggs.
You locked the car and zipped up your jacket
and jogged to the door, out of the cold
as if I never even existed.
Not even a smile?
The least you could do is acknowledge me.
My stomach clenches as
I shove food into my trunk.
My appetite is gone.
Time can never erase the taste, the touch,
the heat of smooth, soft skin. My fingertips
ached to pull him closer. Hands felt my hips,
urging me onward, still forward. So much
depends upon simple contact, and such
sweet, plum caresses from succulent lips.
But this is not quite right. Fantasy rips
and he is not my warmth, the one I clutch.
Not lover, friend, my partner strong and bold,
who brings me to my sweetest, perfect form.
He is a stranger, a poor substitution,
an improper plaster cast, hard and cold.
He could never mold to your humor or charm.
You are gone, he is just an illusion.
A special snowflake disappears on warm skin
just like all the others.
Frost laden bark skeletons scar the sky,
casting shadows in the sub-zero sun
shining on the deathly pallor coating the ground.
The branches look so alone
without leaves to bridge the gaps.
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
There is no desire left to melt this frozen world.
Palms sweat thick as blood. I fold them so as not
to stain my skirt, too clean, too white. The wine of redemption
burns my throat, bitter next to the sweet sin so heavy on my
unholy mind. The call to confess crushes the
soul. There are no secrets left. I can’t look up, can’t
burn my eyes with the sight of his neck, red with the embarrassment
of awareness beneath a shock of blond. He sits two rows ahead,
his head bowed in humility, and I sink to the depths of the
earth, opening to swallow me beneath the altar before me,
drowning me in the tears of the women at the cross.
Confess?
Hard rock as the door lock slides
slowly into place, drowning out the
memory of your face before you
stepped over the threshold. The
timing was wrong but I had hoped we
would fight to save what wasn’t yet
broken. Now headless dolls stumbling
aimlessly across the toy box are what
we have become. Too far even to run
back into ear shot. Turn the music up.
At least I told the truth, and yet
the truth of the matter is that none of it matters.
Reasons why, what made it die, the goodbyes-
I cry but none of the questions wash away.
It just makes mud, mudding up my mind,
making me wonder more and more: why?
I wish I had that answer.
I wish you had that answer.
I wish, as you sat there in your leather jacket
with no shirt, and me underdressed
in faded pajamas and old jeans,
I wish you could have said- or maybe I don’t.
To accept that it happened is
a challenge alone. To know why is more than
I could stand. Who, what, when, and where:
these will have to do. I’ll never accept a reason
why you can’t forgive me the way I forgave you.
You step over the threshold to the
sounds of Beethoven and Mozart. Beautifully
complicated, an enigma I plan to spend
my life solving. Figuring you out is a
full time job, but all I’m paid is promises
and disappointments, affection and fear.
The definition of forever grows smaller
and smaller, a wrung out sponge. Will
we be the ones to soak it full again?
Arpeggios leave out what’s in between.
The third and final part of the collection, To Save A Wretch Like Me, contains the resolution for the lovers as they reach their rock bottom and are left to pick themselves up and find their way back to themselves on their own.
Awake in a photo. Black and white, head hurts too much for color. Loose black slacks drape over a barely there dress on the floor. Milk on the nightstand in front of a background of wood. My hands rest on my stomach. Is milk on my skin? Man’s milk, perhaps. I want milk. What did I do last night? Rolling over, see what I did. He has a stressed smile, spindly at the ends, emblazoned with a promise. Don’t think I want what he’s offering. A sour taste coats my mouth. Turn over, drink the milk. If only the creamy froth could make my insides in its image. The word “milk” crowns everything. I too would like to be pure white.
I saw you, anonymous among the masses, a
passerby spending some time. Come closer,
lead me into artificial intimacy. Body on body,
eat me, crave me. A strange, succulent sweet.
Are we still strangers? I feel I know you so well.
Do you even know my name? Does it matter?
Give me more and who we are won’t matter.
Under these pulsing lights we could be anyone.
I am yours, sweet stranger, just for this song.
Let the beat hide our fears, inhibitions, and
those who are holding us back. The air is hot,
you stick to me. Sweaty sheets and mussed up makeup.
This time of year the rain turns cold.
Amber leaves rustle, threatening to fall.
Before long everything smells of golden brown.
The leaves are most striking right before they die.
They dance in the wind, wild horses with no reins,
As vibrant as a painting from the hands of Van Gogh.
The plunge starts when the will to live minus gravity equals zero.
At last the drop. A gust of wind. Finally, ground.
Once again at rest. Beauty: their last request.
Give it back, the lost color, the lost time.
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood.
God, will the cycle ever end?