Saturday, May 05, 2012


She has seen her face in food, food on walls,
the late-night aftershave men in suede,
felt her body fall ripping gold chains.
She heard the wish for the plane crash,
wings crumbling, the captain's cool voice,
applause two thousand miles away.

Is it what he wanted, these killing words;
such words lie in wait, the wet-fur cringe
down low on plastic tiles, the rattling knob
echoed in slow, cold mirrors,
the slower cracking of the plywood door.

("somewhere my blood beats sure as rain
from tin roofs and in drains,
on the face of a boy
whose lips part for my outpouring")

She has seen his eyes on the banks of the Rhine,
seen him for the first time: in cafes, the wine
mingling hot, his hand on her arm.
Oh such eyes, those black-heart jacks,
reflect nothing on her, or the woman she may be.
They see things in voltage:
the blue bolts dangling, frantic, to the right temple,
the right mind that may be changed.

Still a fear of the eyeless drives her
past speaking, past belief
to some world sightless in itself
in a search for
love, like gold, a vision
given cost beyond weight,
melting once to perfection, twice
to a lesser state

At what point is credibility gained?
At what point is the gained thing forsaken?

She grows old in this hothouse
as lilies fill her mouth
She pardons the exile
and takes her fine time
looking up

There is always the trial ---
as the defendant she must submit
herself, a luxurious thing of lines undrawn
and she feels the split
the plaintive cracks in perception
that see her past stained windows
and into light that glows alone.

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