poetryrepairs #240 v17.09:098

author : title
RALPH MONDAY : The Dying Goddess
RALPH MONDAY : Seagirl

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RALPH MONDAY
The Dying Goddess

Suicide is within us all, exhibited in the most queer forms. I have implanted suicide within my uterus, Kali-like where it has grown like geological seasons, mountains raised up, worn down. I could argue with shadows that my sisters and I long to be Olympian goddesses. To do so is to project film clips on a screen, a movie never finished, eternally in production as it is passed from one producer to another. Though I would like to blame men, I cannot for both male and female, in Greek tunic, medieval skirt, Victorian garb, nightgown, evening dress, mini and maxi participated in the funeral oratory where the sisters slit their own throats. Urge to thanatos that takes many forms, a coat of diverse suicide colors. We have done this to ourselves, no longer nursing the golden calf, we would return to mountains, mate with trees, eat moss, sojourn with wild things, know that the drums we hear are the beatings of the sisters perished before us. At century’s beginning we contemplated different endings, thought that we might live, flourish. Through the century moments of emancipation arrived so that at last we believed men realized the meaning of the skirt. Removed by the 60s and 70s from the soldiers’ pin-up girl poster of the 40s, 50s, we danced in celebration, gave up shaving our underarms, smooth skin of legs. No longer things, dizzy with the power of many, by century’s end we relinquished all that had been conquered, returned to make-up, eyeliner, dancing as pin-ups on TV, Youtube, strutting the line in Victoria’s Secret. Both subject and object, deliverance can only come from creative suicide. In order to live, wayward sisters must be burnt to ashes. In this pew we must sit and pay heed to the sermon.

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RALPH MONDAY
Seagirl 

Seaweed draped your hair like ocean dreads when you came from the surf. Bare legged, brown, creature of water, skittering fish, clams for eyes, dolphin fins for arms, ears attuned to whale sonar, you seemed less woman than a mermaid without a tail. Sea your realm, tongue tasting of salt when you licked my lips, you moved on the beach in the rhythmic manner of waves, of tide’s rise and fall. Once, I buried your dress and bikini in the sand. Unperturbed, the ocean took your naked form, your back and tidal thighs like dolphins serenely rolling to sea’s pulse. You came wet from that great cavity of water knowing that you must soon return. In your embrace I knew the song of the sea, its deep blue liquid poetry, all its hidden tongues interpreted by your unzipped skin. I felt in your kiss all the ocean’s creatures, like living cells swarming through my blood. Then you waded into the quicksilver moonlight, mottled spots on dark water, swam laughing into the distance until surf’s roar drowned and merged, became your voice calling, calling from England’s distant shores. Going home in the way that none of us can do.

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