Future Imperfect

A poem appeared, saying it was sent by the horizon.

Naked except for a hibiscus bloom in its hair, it danced upon a pile of old tires burning behind the strip mall.

"A signal fire," it said.
The smoke became blackbirds, their beaks a collective compass needle.
The poem was itself a flock.

Looking up, I said, "Curiosity killed the cat.
Satisfaction brought her back."

That was the last I saw of the poem,
but its hibiscus bloom hangs from a chain I wear on my wrist
like a false hand 
with a true ring
in lambent light that doesn't show the blood.
_______

for Skylover Word List.

Here Is A Sun

Here is a sun,
extinguished, small, 
not the same one at all, but a sun nonetheless.
On a bright morning or gray weekday afternoon,
take it out,
place it on the cafe table between you and your friend.
Feel the hum inside your head;
the tears that come without reason.

"What if we are only figures inside a snow globe?" you ask.
Your friend shakes her head, turns away,
opens her mouth but doesn't speak.
You're an idiot. Again.
An idiot carrying a small dark sun around in her bag,
on the bus,
queering the traffic signals as you pass underneath.

Big bang.
That was a long time ago, now.
You and your friend cast two shadows in those days,
so substantial and fine that they might have danced away on their own.
At night you dream of geologists
breaking their teeth by biting into geodes.
You call someone.
"I didn't sleep well."
Here is a sun to toy with, to set down and forget.
Calls end, days go on and on,
the sky fills with birds no one can identify.
Your head hums, 
tears come.
Nobody asks why.
_________

 

The Winter Guest

You were the winter guest
wrapped in scarves and leather,
and I was the girl with red hair
and a dollar on the dresser.

One night, eating on the cheap
at the Chinese restaurant downstairs,
you turned an egg roll into a talking dog
who called me her Heart....her Air.

Do you remember when I played you
the song about a nightingale in Berkeley Square?
You called me a granny and kissed my ear,
then dropped your coat on a kitchen chair.

I loved the delicate balance
of my quilt on your back--
candle light in my bedroom--
and all of that....

You were the winter guest
wrapped in cable knit and leather;
now I'm a lonesome nightingale
with a scarf on her dresser.
______

from a word list.

 

Emmeline By Wolf Light

Emmeline by wolf light
keeps Christmas in her own way--
mostly by night,
not much by day.

Emmeline in the evergreens
keeps a cookie called the Moon
in her pocket with her lighter
lit-burned sweet and brighter so it seems.

Emmeline in snow-skin
by witch light scratching at the door
to be let be, and be let in
to give you wolf light, nothing more.
______

mini for the mini-challenge.

sort of a companion piece to "Emmeline By Evening." 

Artifice

Tell me I'm beautiful,
and that you could fall in love with me.
I'm a pretty billboard splashed with promises--
be the slant-boards holding me up.

She broke my heart--
I'm a big empty box full of shards.
Don't shake me, just let me be a star that doesn't move--
I do give some light, if you do all the work.

Sir Knight, I admire you truly--
broad shoulders do something to a girl, even me.
I like the careful knot of your tie, your cologne,
your starched shirt, your smile.

I'll make you laugh and feel good,
all without risking anything, because I won't feel more than fondness.
Then, just when you think we really have something,
I'll be gone, caught up by some woman

Like a kite in the wind, and as fragile.
______

For mag # 299. 

 

Down The Rabbit Hole

This is for my challenge at Real Toads, where I've asked people to imagine that they've gone through a portal in time and into September of 1958.

Reds are the big bogeymen here.
"Russians, yanno, they got no freedoms, not like we do here."
Pardon my unladylike snort.

I spend most nights at Gracie's.
It's a club, but you have to know where it's at.
There's no neon sign, no Yellow Pages ad.
It's tucked away off the main street
and looks like a warehouse from the outside.
Martha Stewart would take one look and have kittens.

When I walk in, the bartender says, "Hey, sister."
She's wearing a man's white tuxedo and it never looked so good.
Women dance together or sit at tables in the low light and talk, 
while holding hands or wrapped together kissing.
It's a sweet place, where a girl can let her hair down,
or tuck it up under a fedora.

Like I say, it's a sweet place, but every few weeks,
the cops raid, and we get our names printed in the morning paper.
Last week, Elaine lost her job because of it;
she was really tired, I could see it in her face.
There's nothing like a long bath to restore a girl's spirits,
but she took a pack of razor blades in with her,
and we won't be seeing her here anymore.

Nights I don't go to Gracie's, I stay home and read.
I can only find two books--
The Well of Loneliness, that they banned in England, stupid Brits,
and The Price Of Salt by "Claire Morgan."
Claire Morgan is really Patricia Highsmith.
She published Strangers On A Train under her own name.

I want a job doing something more than waitressing,
but it's not easy.
I applied to Disney as a cartoonist, but they sent me a nice letter back
that said they only hire male artists.
Straight movies, straight people, straight world, and a man's world besides;
a girl could lose her mind.

Oh well, sugar, after three more years fly by,
I'll have Laura Petrie in her capri pants to lust after.
My cup runneth over.

One nation
Til then, I'll spend my time at Gracie's
under God
as a sister of the Order
indivisible
a Twilight Girl running under the apple pie radar
with liberty and justice
until John Law raids again to satisfy the national morals
for all
but I can't stop thinking about Elaine,
her life's blood slowly leaving her,
a sacrifice for the lukewarm tap water she couldn't survive in.
________