poetryrepairs #222 16.03:034

LYN LIFSHIN : Snake Dream
MARK A. MURPHY : Snow Dream

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LYN LIFSHIN
Snake Dream

His eyes, for weeks, piercing. Itís 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. ďRelax!Ē only with this man, the words move in deeper. ďI can help you,Ē he says, moving deeper. In the next frame, shaking, Iím 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. ďDo I know, even as a dancer, he whispers, women 30 to 40 years bloom.Ē I know he must know Iím 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 donít 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 donít see you in a tent in the snow. I saw you last night in some strangersí 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 Iím stubborn, refusing to give you up. Youíre sure we will meet again, at least once more, before dying. Your words bring tears to my eyes, Iíve little strength without you, no sense of carrying on alone. Letís go to that campsite now, see the dome tent pitched in the snow. Letís walk in each otherís 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 Ė 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?




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