THAT OLD TWO STEP

By the third one

She was numb.

Too many tangled,

“no, I don’t really love you’s”

caught up in her dreams.

Erotic arousal brings

visions of 

dismemberment

little feet and hands

that would never hold

a mother’s heart.

Heart? 

What is heart?

Eggs sizzle

in the pan

where once a soft,

moist kiss

bespoke of moments

lost.

“No, I did not love him.”

Safer not to love

‘till dismembered babies

enter the picture.

A saxophone somewhere

far off plays...

Baby, take my heart.

Baby, take my hand.

take me to the arcade

Baby make them eggs stop

sizzlin’ --

Make that pinball whirl end,

the arcade lights go dim,

Make this menstral trail

fill once again with life,

set aside the ache of life spent,

life lost,

Life -- that egg that sizzles,

never hatched.

SAHARA SUNRISE

This sand, 

it sears the flesh.

Abrasions form 

where once unblemished

cheeks shone bright

with hope.

This train, 

it moves so slow,

so achingly slow,

There seems no end

to this long ride.

Eyes grow opaque,

no images,

just searing wind

blowing glass-edged

grains that sear away

protective layers.

They seem endless,

these days of travel

to the mines.

They seem hollow,

vacant as the echos

of dreams once dreamt.

LIKE LOVE, LIKE ROBERT HASS

I am in love

with Robert Hass,

Fucking his woman 

in the ass,

sick of birth.

find anger there
that brings me peace,

like the succulent juices
of an o're ripe peach.

THE PROBLEM WITH WOMEN

Drink from this vessel

all ye who thirst,

For sustenance flows here.

Quench that thirst

that parches the soul.

Abandon reciprocating

with empty promises.

Fill this vessel to the brim

lest it wither 

like a haggard womb.

ON COMING HOME

 An exorcism has taken

  Place.

  This house no longer holds

  childhood’s fears.

  Gone is the wrestling

  of angst and anxiety

  Once borne in this child’s breast.

  She feels at peace, at rest,

  No need to flee,

  no restless urge to leave:

  

  Home at last.

ROTHKO'S EYES

I cannot entertain this truth

as being someone else’s.

I envision Cassandra

reaching out in her last moment,

retching 
from the stench of truth

And it is me.

I think of Iphigenia 
on that alter stone,

eyes gazing up at father’s

And it is me.

I watch with inward eye

as Clytemnestra plots Agamemnon’s death:

bath drawn,

knife stealthily concealed

And it is me.

“ROTHKO!” 

I shout, gazing on the Eagle.

And agonize,

conceiving corpses

cold before my coil was formed,

And It Is ME.

*The artist Mark Rothko’s

“Omen of The Eagle” was his response

to “The Orestia.” I offer this feminist

response to both works.

ANNA'S LAST WALTZ

She danced in the air,

a mote in the gaslight

soft 

     and fragile,

her moment over 

too soon.

When she thought

of him

It was with a longing

for moments lost,

For a dance never

fully engaged in.

Raw silk

chafed at her neck,

this would be her last waltz.

One danced alone.

Her feet 

never touching the
cold, grey
cement  floor

Once the chair

was kicked aside

And all of her sadness

evaporated,

A mote in the gaslight.