poetryrepairs 16,11:125

LYN LIFSHIN : Dream Ruined by Dog-sized Centipede
LYN LIFSHIN : Rarely, When I'm Content

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LYN LIFSHIN
Dream Ruined by Dog-sized Centipede

in the start, it's ok, more than ok. Some Caribbean island maybe, the palm trees, blue sea. A paradise but time keeps racing. I can only see we are closer to leaving and it seems each day is a rush, a place to be or to meet people one came with. Suddenly tho I am no longer loving my skin, I want to swim, be the one no one can get out of the wateró cerulean, sapphire, tealóthere arenít enough words for the astonishing blue blue but itís time for my private dance lesson with the man I donít recognize at first but itís the youngest pro on Dancing with the Stars, Derek Hough. Not my type except when the hour is over I canít leave him. He has to work on over-due steps, asks if I could rub his shoulders. I always go for darker men, the sort you-canít-get-blood-from-a-stone mysteries. This man is light and fun and of course heís too young by a million years but when I straddle him it seems the night is ok. I donít want this skin on skin to end. If I could have woken up then, if I was the age he is before I felt this. If someone who recognized me hadnít insisted I give an impromptu poetry reading and sent me staggering from his beautiful warm skin, my hands still holding the scent of his shoulders, the sea behind me blowing the few poems I had on the flooróthere was nothing I wanted to read. I ask the people to just wait, Iíll find what I want but nothing comes together and then in another frame back in the states, in this Virginia townhouse just as itís time to shower, a centipede the size of a dog and not even a small one skitters out of reach from room to room animals7

poetryrepairs #230 15,11:125





LYN LIFSHIN
Rarely, When I'm Content

but to calm myself in terror the poems vibrate in my chest, something like a boat beginning to churn or a cat not content and quiet on a green velvet chair with a bowl of milk and the sun on her face, but more the way, caged and scared, she curls into her self as if trying to be calm, a hum, like a chant to heal something damaged or broken. Almost a throb but softer. Itís not clear if some part of me is mortally wounded or like that cat purr readying for death. The poem in the sun pulls heat, something bright inside, is the whir of a boat or wings, like the cat, almost singing

poetryrepairs #230 15,11:125






   




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