LYN LIFSHIN
Snake Dream
His eyes, for weeks, piercing.
It’s a fantasy but it feels he is
looking where no one has.
There is a class, ballet,
or ballroom and he comes
up and touches my shoulder
as another one had the
other morning in waltz.
“Relax!” only with this
man, the words move in
deeper. “I can help you,”
he says, moving deeper. In
the next frame, shaking,
I’m about to be moving
into his arms, a private class
in a room more like a bed
room than a studio. He
tells me I remind him
of his wife, tells me she
has so many clothes but
wears the same ones. “Do
I know, even as a dancer, he
whispers, women 30 to 40
years bloom.” I know he
must know I’m not that but
he is choreographing a
piece we will perform. In
the dream, a longing
I never feel awake. I hope
my tights and velvet
camouflage emptiness
I don’t want him to see. I
will give it my all. It
will be like giving the
sexiest, hottest novelist
what he says was his best
blow job, a one time per-
formance, a tryst, not
an affair
poetryrepairs #222 16.03:034
MARK A. MURPHY
Snow Dream
In your absence snow has drifted into the woods
where we might have camped,
only I don’t see you in a tent in the snow.
I saw you last night in some strangers’ house
miles from any campsite, bound
by feral cats, hell bent on their ferocity.
All love is change. You tell me to love another,
but I’m stubborn, refusing to give you up.
You’re sure we will meet again, at least once
more, before dying. Your words bring tears
to my eyes, I’ve little strength
without you, no sense of carrying on alone.
Let’s go to that campsite now, see the dome tent
pitched in the snow. Let’s walk
in each other’s footprints through the deep drifts
where no government could bother our secret lay.
In your absence snow has drifted
all over the Pennine hills, all over old England.
poetryrepairs #222 16.03:034
MARK A. MURPHY
Interstellar
What void is this, castrates man
and silences the beloved –
our lovers already selfless and sexless
as if just out of earshot
of the next failed romance,
the next reckoning with God?
What now of all the words written,
all exhortations, all whispering
down the years, where one being
ineluctably ends as two creatures
without sustenance, suffering
by degrees, fading out to darkness.
Are we all done, lover
or do we hold out for one last kiss,
a last embrace before the fall,
where man and woman might yet
have a last chance, win the day
in spite of all our disappointments?
thank you for reading poetryrepairs
please link to http://www.poetryrepairs.com/v16/034.html
| |
|
|
|
|
All the fine arts are species of poetry--Samuel Taylor Coleridge
poetry repairs
your heart
even as it splits it open.
VIRGINIA WOOLF
The Art of Reading
Our Dancing Poet Logo! FIND GIFT BUY GIFT
http://www.zazzle.com/poetryrepairshop
No state organ: POETRYREPAIRS
accepts NO money from federal,
state, or local governments.
READERS maintain poetryrepairs
NO READING FEE FOR SUBMISSIONS. DONATIONS, while appreciated, WILL NOT INCREASE CHANCES OF BEING SELECTED.
I have many things to write unto you but I will not write with pen and ink --JOHN the theologian
>
REPAIR: resort, frequent or habitual going; concourse or confluence of people
at or in a place; making one's way; to go, betake oneself, to arrive; return to a place; to dwell; to recover, heal, or cure; to renew; to fix to original condition. -- Oxford English Dictionary
read more poetry
LYN LIFSHIN
MARK A. MURPHY
"poetryrepairsblog.com" for your comments, critiques, criticism or general discussion of poetry
top
|