Amaranth, on my back, off
the edge of life.
Dangling cords fall
like snakes, I hanged them
there to dry
me out. With you,
it is cold.
I can’t say that. I miss you,
but I do not. Have you
been tempted to rip her
skin off and put mine on?
My back is off
the edge, now
life is seeping through
my toes, amaranth
dangling, a love letter
for you.
inch of time spent over the sea,
dragging your dead body back
from the sharks I fed you to.
There should be enough salt
to drown in. Now that is something
you don’t hear of!
But, I have heard of Buddha,
and Ghandi,
and what great advice for the
blonde girls in white dresses,
not scratched by hands of
light drinking, or hard gunfire;
the girls untouched by
living a dead life, waking under floorboards
built by their mothers.
Your heavy photograph burns to
my tongue. I spit. I curse you out
of your newly dried grave.
I am ecstatic for your corpse,
it grows on me like tough leather.
Now for her.
I carry a monsoon to her driveway.
She is lit up. A bright pumpkin
ripened for plummet.
She dresses in honeysuckle,
and flickers like whiskey.
I haven’t thought of her name,
she is black as a canvas; a new galaxy
before energy matters.
If her heart happens to
do that, I will carve it out.
I will take it back to July in my teeth
where the desert is waiting for me,
it’s Queen.
Darkness is the culprit that lingers behind
each slice of sweet Nectarine.
I am late.
I’ve been here before.
The other side of love.
The place that dissects the tongues
of former lovers
and turns them into layers.
love on
anger on
love on
hate on
jealousy on
love
on poison liquid every night before we stumble to sleep
with the darkness that caresses our feet
and convinces us that we love ourselves
to much to live on the other side.
I am late.
I’ve been here before
where I could feed you Mercury
while the sun sets on us forever.
I’d caress your feet and pray to the darkness
to take you far away
from my love.
Gather your corn cockle and doll’s eyes,
the apple orchard’s angry.
She shoots her black seeds
down your throat,
eyes pierced through skin
to watch your veins suffocate.
I met her in September
when she was frail – my mistake –
I never knew of her spines, thorns,
and thistles.
But you knew everything of her:
her laughter,
her sentiment,
her tears….
and she hid in her orchard watching
the way I would swing from your branches;
how you picked fruit ripe from my body,
how every night you crossed midnight
twisted in my edible, red
nightshade
while her delicious Golden
nectar kept well
for the worms.
winds sail slow
arriving with difficulty
to confession
I speak against another
back turned
burned by sun light
I am familiar
with the dark –
with poison
with automatic disappointment
that my lips may
part for lava
but not for pardon
and I sail slow over
raging seas
arriving with difficulty
to confession
where familiar darkness
speaks mostly
about me
I see how he boils
I see his skin blistered and peeling
at the surface, and
I see what lies beneath.
I couldn’t help it, his voice started out whimsy and soon turned grey.
I searched for colour, for exposure, for sound;
in every wrinkle,
in every scar I searched, but they grew dull
and duller, still.
There is only one way at a time like this,
for me, just one way.
I carved a switch, long and thin,
kissed it from tip to tip,
dipped it in ferocious honesty
and laid it upon him.
Every sharp went unacknowledged, ignorance shaded
his wounds, so I left them.
He came back for another round and
I smacked him with truth,
defiance and with truth,
and he did not believe me.
So, I left.
Then, he came back and I swat him again.
I welted and blistered his skin, this
time colour arose.
Red infection swelled at the lacerated sites,
and he boiled.
I listened to his blood and his voice boil,
and his skin gash and then blister,
but before all this
I saw what hid beneath.
Now, I stand in front of my mirror,
where he thinks my reflection is
hollow and bare,
and I see all of my wrinkles and scars
and where they came from
and that they will always be
but with their colour,
and their colour,
and their colour!
Note keys float out
swamp leaves, slit open,
hang out by green string.
Black notes,
A, B, C, float dark nightly,
lightly
through a
new moon’s ear piece.
A mad need, I am
bad seeds
planting roots
in last years’ moon beams.
Spread eagle.
Tongue tied,
sublimely.
The serene swamp sings.
Wants me
buzzing,
dripping golden honey
with springs yellow bees.
I asked the love beat
to swim,
stark,
bare feet
jealous oak trees watching
each move
melodically down stream
whipped cream
skin
dipped in a breeze.
A wet dream
for an
old, dry oak tree.
In case of necessity, hang your husband.
Your pistol might misfire, but prevent.
It will happen, poor turtle!
Your slow shoes will be suspicious; sluggish,
lame,
dragging the accused on a rope.
What a shame personal bravery is. Suspecting
everything
but its own heart. Much better a
widow than
a former, I suppose.
So, just in case, keep rope.
Mary or
Heather or
Anne will lay weight on
your fool. Pretty wretch!
Then wine,
then pistol,
biting cries then
silence.
She can’t escape without her eyes!
He means
to bury himself deep
in your bed,
where you may find happiness
tomorrow,
but
the rope!
A whore will steal everything but!
…and where did you meet her? On
Scottish streets? In a chic bakery?
Did she La-Dee-Dah in silk
stockings?
Her name is Wife. I know about her.
Past lovers speak of
her
treachery. They brought her in on
ropes twisted from her
French Scarves, tied her to their clumsy
belts.
They never replaced their belts…
or their shoes! Walking on old, worn soles.
Treading cautiously, as one step might
shred a shoe at its seams.
Each lover gave me permission to
remove their dirty
belt at night, doors holding off
Wives for the night.
Morning brought them back with vengeance. As belts
climbed
back on vacillating hips, claiming
ownership,
an old Wife would
strike! Agitated clouds would roll in, graying their eyes.
A former storm taking them back
to when they met her.
And she will take you away, too. Back to
dirty streets of Scotland,
to poison you
with silk stockings.
Dead center
hanging
dangling from fish-hooks
Jesus has pierced
through each armpit
peeled
every day is
discriminating
a fruitful woman faces me
“those hips couldn’t possibly bear children”
an eager man braces my backside
rests on me
cheek to cheek
men and women
all varieties
surround my languished
flaw
each taking turn
weapon of choice in
claw
seeking destruction
secretly wishing Jesus
had
chosen them.
maggiemaeijustsaythis 