I scratch my head, the mixture of henna and indigo dyeing my
finger nails black
thinking of the red pill and the blue
Alice and her little vial
Drink Me
Pandora’s Box
Athena’s head exploding, a rebuttal to Zeus
yellowing wallpaper closing women’s mouths
Radcliffe shouts in her lesbian manifest
those following her down the well of loneliness
high waisted and limber of spine.
I want to nibble upon you morning, noon and night
but I do what is right and keep my fantasies in check
behind the lines of notepads and in the ink of pens
I suck till my tongue turns blue-black
your lips remind me of a pomegranate even without rouge
they look edible, lush, full like an excuse never to apologize
we are girls of violet, our pin in the concentration camps was
a pink V
last night I watched When Hitler Stole White Rabbit
at the Jewish Film Festival, chewed the inside of my mouth
in frustration at the abhorrence of others
when I was a child I did not have a pink rabbit
you left your hair brush and your rose water and your
tattered lace-edged simple night gown
I don’t think you ever wore one again, in the 1970s
nude was in vogue
women coming and going
from my father’s room
with dimpled bottoms and breasts like Claire Bretécher
I learned my likings on photography books, under the section
‘erotica’ and other arts, believing archly
pornography an expression, when now, thinking back
they had such sorrowful eyes
like deer who stare into
the lights of an oncoming truck
is it bravery or hypnosis? Perhaps
it is fatalism, the French, myself
moving to countries who do not condone
indolence, expecting different results
when escape has no good set of keys
just jangles from your pocket like a taunt.
It’s not cute when you’re over thirty, to
long for the purple balloon in the supermarket
or lie, cat-like on the carpet and me-ow when your lover
is mad
it is not seemly, to be childish when you have
your first crows-feet, or need a push-up bra
unless you leave your glasses to the side
dive in, deep and thick
the molasses of not giving a fuck
where 80 year olds, excel and laugh
like they did at eight without front teeth
much the same, much the same.
The magic fairground, everyone remembers names,
I recall songs and colors of girls eyes
how they look sleeping, with their hands flung
like emotions above their heads, bent at the wrist
bangles on the floor, hidden beneath cascading sheets
elegance in angles, the way eyebrows furrow
in thought, how that line shapes over time into
a question mark, the parchment of skin, in
darkness, tracing braille, for the day none of us
will see, more than the outline of certainty.
You said: “Maybe you won’t love me when my
breasts sag, when I stop working out and the
lines of years begin to encroach. Don’t you like my
firm arms, they do not hang like bats, my mother’s did
I am mortally afraid of skin that hisses when you look
at it.”
Perhaps men had done this to you, torn down
your childhood gauze, made you feel the need to
apologize for things to come. I have read
Dreams Of Young Girls, I know how the photographer
can project a fantasy upon a real girl, even
when she is young, begin to pick her apart
as she unfurls like a Christmas amaryllis, not
caring the pickpockets of their distain
leave her in rags. Or maybe it was another
woman and her cruelty or her hatred? Tight
in an ill-fitting jar, straining to propagate.
“After all, you are so perfect,” you said,
smiling at my narrow hips (like a boy)
my unmarked skin (sun-screen)
the thickness of my hair (good shampoo)
how taut my calves look in leggings (optical illusion)
girls with girls tend to compare
it is not always favorable
though we find in our mixing bowl of humility
a little easement
the tasty wick of joy
burning low into auburn night
going over
those fears
with soft fingertips
and gentle reproaching …
Oh softening
Motioning
Nightfall
In whisper find blessed felicity
A body untouched, lain emptied of worth
brought to life, my Lazarus, spinning moon beneath our chins
rounding music fluting her velvet want to stay beautiful physically
for you to hold your breath as you touch, yes I understand
and still, beauty retains a deeper chord
dancing on raw feet to Erik Sate, trying to impress.
No, love, no, age is wine
spreading in the roof of your oval mouth
each place it has visited will transport you back, among the
grapes, tanned beneath reliable sun till just ripe, rolling in barrels
aged over centuries, buried with
secrets, the taste of fruit and toil, lustily on its wood
roots reaching deeply into history, for every year lived
another branch uncoils, the leaves, a brilliant green, bearing fruit
then flowers, finally sheltering, those beneath
such is a woman, such as you are
lying in my arms, the sweat of sleep, hot on your neck
cheeks pushed against my shoulder blades
causing you to look like you are pursing your lips
in effort to dream
finding ways always
to hold you closer,
closer
closer
closer.