Delicious Sunday,
absent of the jam of people,
of masquerade.
My kite lifts off fevered shoulders,
enters frothy clouds to
mourn buried dreams and fly.
Asleep, on grass waves, I surrender
to stillness,
expecting great ends to
fall upon me.
I have won no roses
by thievery, I am oiled,
scented by the White snake
who coils her spirit as an
act of love.
If I was a child, I would
have expected this,
but not today. Not in
these years.
pretty girl in peach giggles
making wishes,
blowing quiet whispers off
wild flowers
pick all the petals you
can find before they die
green ropes soak up air
from my lungs
I wish
I wish in silence
not for me – I am done
but for a lifetime of
blowing kisses in
spring winds,
making giggles grow faster
than wild flowers
and petals that live forever in
the yellow sunburst around
your pupils
pretty girl in my stilettos
wishing to grow and grow
I wish
I wish in silence
not for me – I am done
but for a slow life
of sweet summer banana juice
and rain
a garden of imagination and
when you are done
I wish
I wish in silence
not for me
but for a lifetime of love
it won’t be long
the Japanese death garden sings wildly
across the world
I whistle back, a soft. black tune
and lose my eyes to winter
I sleep with her on desperate nights,
her hard skin teaches me
God’s lessons.
I am a body of ache for men to pour their
pain into, she tells me how to behave.
I cry that I am to be a desert,
I am naked, on my way there.
She holds me quick, against her cold
and blows me into prayer,
I lay deep in hell, but I swear, God touches me here.
He reaches through me and pulls
out a song. He whispers, “it won’t be long”
then asks me, again, for prayer.
Is my dead name happening?
September, my quickest friend.
Who waits for who?
Each night, your hands part my lips,
delivering the wise bees.
My throat tickles from his telling wings,
his impossible story
about how God will forget me.
His fierce wildness
will throw thunder, while I drift
on wings of amity
he will strike! My veins will crumble,
my body will become
an old abandoned city
for his merciful army.
The bees cry in agony,
a storm threatens them now
as I dream
of nothing past September.
I am sick with fate,
but rise to courtesy.
The bees and their sweet story
do not abandon.
My grateful knee to the Earth,
I whistle out the bees.
Their freedom, my peace.
A woman wrinkles over her chair,
soaked in religion,
piling God’s children on gravel.
They eat with her disciples
where bread is dry, yet
milk is sweet.
I stand by with clover.
I paint the children green and set them up
as chess pieces.
Confused feet step over boundaries,
but it is her game.
Her weight stomps chicken bones.
Her voice pours like gravy
over our heads, till I put them to sleep,
and the lullaby’s rock me
as I bleach time from my head.
The woman is asleep
in God’s arms, I rest at his feet,
and the children,
in their sleep, sing.
The thunder is rolling in and
I am on the floor,
waiting for the black to
explode into something more.
The piano is warm, every key stroke
lights up the room,
outside strikes of light
and his perfume
lingers after his feet.
I live for the carpet that he danced
across,
his silent promise to
haunt me
through the storms
that warned me of him
before I was born.
My birth was a golden eruption
of time
that took heartbeats from my arms
and placed them
in puzzles,
in God’s masterpiece.
His Masterplan.
If I were a man, I would have taken them
back, painting a home
in the deep strikes
outside
of the waves of thunder and
light,
but I am a woman and I am
a deep rolling drum roll
floating above the rumble,
resting my head on the outline of his
chest,
breathing in between a memory
of heart beats,
shoving the rain out of
this room
and back into the slick black piano
keys that wrap his warm
arms around me.
I bend easy, like a willow, swaying in
every direction, never favoring
East over West. I am hungry for
all direction, feasting on the luxurious winds
that pick me up and carry me from the storms of
inexperience to the gentle breeze of wisdom.
Though, I snap as sharp as winter pea
skin, frost bitten by the breath of the season
when they try to take me.
They say I belong with them in the East, where
the sun rises just to shine its Gold on me.
They say I belong to the West and
the colours of their underground sunsets.
Some say I belong for them to share,
for them to grant my freedom,
and they do not understand that I belong
only to the wind.
his laugh is familiar
like an old couch that swallowed me
every night, while I dreamed of
an old waxen witch
my hands are angry tonight,
but all I can think about is
that old couch,
wrapping me in its faded blue
arms, holding my fright in
its warped interior,
sucking me away from solitude
before any man, I found intimacy
in stretched fabric, I relinquished my
sweet innocence to an upholstered
mass
and find it all again,
in a laugh.
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.
I am laying in wet cement, gray
mud
blanket gobbling up my plague.
It is thick like me,
like the twenty years of
plaster inside.
Everything is hardening.
Kidney.
Liver.
Fallopian Tubes.
Guts.
Heart.
I have been treated like a statue.
It isn’t hard to
be still,
motionless. Erect.
Allowing curious wanderers to
make up my background,
my story.
A man brought oranges
to paint
me with. He was a soft liquid.
I was set to stone.
He sliced his moist fruit,
dripping
sweet citrus over my rough skin, melting
my rind.
Away, away I went with delicate fruit.
A new sculpture.
A beautiful, fluid seed.
maggiemaeijustsaythis 