RUTH ASCH
Beach Body
Walk the beach - I am outlined in gold;
eye-prints like scarabs crawl my skin,
green-beautiful. What will they weigh
if I am held in balance
against feather-coated doves?
My solar plexus smiles tight
at Sun, its worshippers, its loves;
beneath, within, are knotted
puce threads whose fretting stitches
show where worn my rag-stuffed form,
its twisting wires of metallic blue.
China feet crusted, dull glitter,
legs jar like stilts the shifting scurf
of borderland.
I lie
a plank on compact sand
avoiding scarabs;
envision floating foam -
a sparkling waterbed
which isn't there;
call it spiritual...
believe it true...
or
stalk the unpeaceful tide -
spattered at, cut by shingle,
breath lost in salty wind which fingers, tangles hair,
eyes dazed by lace which melts in mud...
and when departing wavelets gush
beneath my arches tenderly
near draw me in forever...
poetryrepairs #240 v17.08:091
RUTH ASCH
Rescue
She sat at the gates of mourning
in her mind, begging tears and blessings
- currency of the dead -
from ghosts inhabiting its sanctum.
He brought her out of Desolation.
Her air flying, flocked with voices:
recounting and incanting.
She clung to him; he listened.
They fled, hand in hand in silence;
trailed by hoodlum nightmares
which woke them every morning,
worming over untucked sheets;
None saw her eyes as he did:
the colour of an unplayed music;
Like plundered art
her lostness, awkward grace.
He built a fence; she helped him -
steel glare, barbed word, disapproval -
higher than the danger,
bar by bar of stiff objection.
The gate clamped teeth. Inside
she wept ichor and rue,
Strong hands fell on her.
They turned from the world outside.
His shadowed eyes a child's:
fear, defiance, wonder;
a plea. He tossed away the key.
She held him.
poetryrepairs #240 v17.08:091
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The Art of Reading
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