Another Part Of The Stage

In three instances, a quarrel. They just happened.
You can imagine, living with an audience for
several years, one might crave affection from the graveyard.

Adorned with diamond rattler’s around her neck,
she hissed! A victim losing her fingernails, clawing concrete,
speaking at a bouquet of guns against her head.
She hissed and spit whore
venom on the Church, on God’s appointments
on the blood of her own Mother.
There was plenty of talk in her head,
like she hadn’t been cooked all the way.
Little Birdie,
we called her.
Whoever she was!
And this, the first quarrel!

The most vicious influence was the lonely lie.
Her handsome face, her warm fingerprints
marking the dry surface of men, her pretty
negligent smile. A suspicious flattery.
We hate that word ‘lonely’. It sounds too much  like
her long, cimmerian hair falling out of
nonsense, into the hands of Marcus,
who was legal and wise.
She was sick with her voices,
but her art flowed with age, though an age she would
never meet. She was never a companion,
never a graceful daisy soaking in a glass on the windowsill.
She was sour. The yellow tart.
She was built by a man of taste,
not by a woman of fertile soil and thick roots.
She was the feel of scandal for fifteen years,
a southern discovery of poor breeding;
thus, of the quarrel! The second!

Until we found her. Marked on
a cotton morning, her delicate apology.
Her body rot little overnight, her palm held smudges of
the colour of  kisses she blew everywhere.
The undeserving. The unpolished drunkards
sleeping in her
empty stairwell.
Most people like that war.
The soldier falling on
desperate knees, giving her awful consent,
her soiled white handkerchief surrendering from
the cup of her bra.
This is the third quarrel. The one they want to hear.
Was there a symphony of blood?
Was she wrapped in her velvet curtain and dropped
from the top floor?
Who played the piano? Who picked up her body
and decided that she wrote this score?
Even the tears cried for her gossiped about this act.

This was the starving quarrel.
Fed like a good husband, yet hollowing still!
Maybe she was a little wild
and sick with threats,
poor Little Birdie, her nervous
beauty gulped her down like a glass of Brandy.
She was tired.
And this, the third quarrel. Act Three.
Curtains down.

13 thoughts on “Another Part Of The Stage

  1. Maggie – you challenge me to think deeper. You paint pictures I do not care to see, but I know they are real – they exist. The pain and the nothingness expressed in the words open wide my eyes to the world of so many who we, whom I, let fade into oblivion. For this I am sorry and I my heart is encouraged to share more of the joy and the hope which is mine. You are an artist with words.

  2. I like her nervous beauty gulping her down like a glass of Brandy. I have meditated on the idea that physical beauty; extraordinary beauty, can make for an ugly life. A life that is difficult to bear. Difficult to have trusted friends. Though this might deepen the appreciation, gratitude for a trusted friend once vetted. Everyone is a universe unto themselves.

  3. Rip me to-and-fro why dontcha. Powerful piece, Maggie. “Even the tears cried for her gossiped about this act.” Something about that line, in that moment, hit me. Perfect, like a single raindrop falling, carried alone on the gusting wind, to land dead-center in a languid pool. Beautiful…
    Thank you for reading, and liking my writing.

  4. I can second many comments here – heavy, powerful, makes me contemplate and see things I’d rather avoid acknowledging. I nearly stopped reading because I found some imagery disturbing, but the beauty of the writing kept me going – brilliant. You paint with your words but I’d also love to see what a visual artist would make of this.

    Thanks for the visit and for following – I’m honoured:-)

  5. Thanks for sharing–I don’t seem to have nearly enough poetry in my life these days so its great to be exposed to such powerful prose. And of course, thanks as well for the follow.

  6. pretty fucking sweet.
    i hereby extend my cyber hand, it’s a pleasure to meet you over the blog o’sphere!

    Something you don’t know about me:

    Our names rhyme.

    And I hope to meet other poets, they are so few and hard to find because they journey high mountain tops to wait in turn to get struck by lightening.

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