The Promise of Something

Thorns

I. Consort of the witch...

Hovers behind indigo
twilight, watches  her
cast circles, cleanse
space, collect inferior
men. He drags deep
on a Camel, palms
burning expresso,
tongues secrets into
smoky rings and blows
them salaciously into
her dreams.

II.  Participial Modifier

"The up side..."
he says and leaves the
modifier to leak into
the night. The woman smiles
allows it to hang in smoke
escaping her lips. Two bodies
warm, reclined on a leather sofa.
Two skins content with the
almost of touch. Two minds,
suspended, breathing
totality.

III.  Elaine

stopped dying her hair,
let the gray grow in,
leaves her jewelry-n-eyeliner
on a dirty bathroom sink.
She filters through e-mail.
Her teenage boy runned off.
A baby waits in the south,
the ex wants her check,
he sleeps with a bottle blond
in West Virginia mountains.

Elaine crushes her Marlboro,
green eyes lost on an image
of a grandson she ain't ever
gonna see, and wonders
when life dried her up.

IV.  Black Water

Poet says mount
in my endless soul,
rise strong with vigor
from distant safety
of predetermined reality.
Recline inside me where
agony births beauty;
love is intangible,
consuming; where the
universe enfolds itself,
and the reflection of
mirrors is perfect
emptiness.

V. Nucleus

Come here,
you doddle,
you insipid thing
that has led me astray
for far too long,
do not go silent now.
This is your game.
In the northern regions
of this body the contained ego
pounds for logic, barriers and control.
In the southern regions, passion
yawns and chews off another nail.
We three wait on you. You sleepy
thing. You unclassifiable, cantankerous
pound of crimson flesh, will you
at least not even whisper? You who
have wanted voice for so long, wept
for freedom, here, it is yours. Now,
guide onerous one, ponderous,
complex, defying creature, your stillness
leaves us all here in the vacant wastelands
of a foggy limbo. Sing! Chant! Scream! Cry!
But do not, as you are, remain in inflexible
hush. Do not fool yourself believing some
false god will heed your tiny prayer, spark
you alive as more. There is your battle,
your calling...
Or
have we together, ego, passion and me,
beat you so far down that you cannot rise,
that you have indeed slipped finally,
permanently, into coma of the night.

VI. Here

right there,
there is where it hurts,
in the dark space between
my exposed breasts,
when your hand brushes
the flesh, do you feel the
wet-vastness of a gaping wound,
when your tongue laps my nipple,
do you taste the salty flow?
If kisses were miracles,
you could make be born-again.
But lips cannot stitch this
divide, and my soul
willingly give to
hemorrhaging.

VII. Detachment

The priestess says
I must detach. In sympathy
for my endless transformation,
she wraps me in warmth of blankets,
sage smoke and her flowing aura;
lulls my troubles to sleep
with lavender and white angelic
oils. Her fingers brush my hair,
the way yours used to, she is
trying to rub you out. Your name
is foreign, but still beautiful, on
her tongue, and I would weep
if there were tears left. She sings
your memory to my soul,
flushes my body with remembrance.
I am cocooned in her protection,
in the now where your blood still
flows through me and our dreams
are still possible. On waking, only
she and I sit in silence, only her
amber eyes smile at me,
we journey to peace, through
a labyrinth of letting go.