naked, sitting bent over so her head rests on her arms that fold over her knees, her stringy hair straggling down her back, a bulging belly, hanging breasts, weeping unlipped, useless as flab, cow-heavy with unseasoned love, joy prostituted, future raped. if we could see her face, would we see swollen red eyes? or is it too hard to move the heart again? has the soul become a jaded stranger digging through the dirt of this world for just a glimpse of itself?
Well, there it is. As pink as you painted it. The bed stripped naked. No need to make it. But I probably will. But not right now. No, I will walk past it. Close the door. Not think about it. How bare it is. How you won’t be there tonight Or tomorrow or any night now.
And though you are a smiling bride On your wedding day, For a brief moment You saw it too And felt that pull Away from the room, Away from your home And me.
Those acid tears have eaten away the last ounce of flesh from that ample carcass, and the autumn rains have washed the skeleton over the rocks of her memory where those bones lie bleaching in the sun of her returning smile.
That eyeless skull speaks the truth, not like his blue liars of June that promised to light the way to love.
That lipless mouth speaks the truth, not like his flesh-rimmed hole that spewed poisoned honey.
Those fleshless arms speak the truth, not like that soft, warm circle that held her against that bloodless heart.
—villanelle inspired by Malcolm M. Sedam’s “The Hill Maiden”
Moving through a deep valley of melancholy night She roams ghost-like though the stones of dreams— Even without wings, she will soon sail into flight.
Her smile carries a sword that rends her might. Flowers meet her eye but her sorrow still gleams— Moving through a deep valley of melancholy night.
Her thoughts attend a rainbow galaxy of light, As the blood rose pricks the ice of clay-cold streams— Even without wings, she will soon sail into flight.
The pain of growth spreads through her flesh in spite Of snow bank’s promise of better schemes— Moving through a deep valley of melancholy night.
Zen-like hands reach out, time tends to make all right The door of her heart opens wide, as yearning teems— Even without wings, she will soon sail into flight.
Her reveries rise on golden prayers unto the height Where soul love heals all gloom as new light beams— Moving through a deep valley of melancholy night, Even without wings, she will soon sail into flight.
His words did roam through lanes of rustic gold, By fields where amber wheat doth kiss the sky, Along the river’s bend, both swift and bold, O’er arches wrought of stone they softly fly.
Through wooded snares and breezes light they sweep, Above the crawfish in their misty play, Each sound ablaze, as if the night to keep, A flame of moonshine gilds the fleeting day.
His phrases dance round lilies of the morn, And spark a gleam within mine eyes to shine, Like candlewood where autumn shades are born— Yet sad to say his wayward soul doth not align.
Beneath the boughs, my heart did strain to hear, His tongue’s dulcet tones, to me now no longer dear.
