Surrealism: Botany mourning: “A Trip to the Moon”
A seed
flying
landing
into her ripped dress
pores popping out daisies
one by one
her feet
becoming the grass
nestled above his grave
death rattles
roots spreading out
in-between her toes
sewing her to the Earth
stitch by stitch
sharp vines surging through the skin
of her lips-
an eyelet bearing her iris
the tears in her eyes
draining down into the flowers
into the ground
making the grass grow
fuller
denser
until it begs no more
and now only wants to be filled with
porcelain grasshoppers
rolling wildly on their backs
playing melodies like
music boxes
floating ballerinas twirling in pockets of pink tulle
pressing their palms together-
the Black Swan taking her cue
standing on pointe
her face drying into amber bark
glittering with fossils
dinosaurs with feathers
flying from the nook
between her shoulders and her neck
her arms extending into branches
curving into
misshapen bolts of lightning
her hair twisting towards the sky
whispering to the sun
for nourishment
when it awakes,
as the moon looks down
adjusting his telescope
jealous from above
burning the love letters
that he has written her
taking back his long drawn out kisses
as she holds him close
smelling his aftershave
feeling the stubble of his beard
against her breast-
hiding his anger
from her
on his dark side
and holding out for Melies
to give him his close-up
Contemporary: One Bad Apple
Surrounded by men
Sitting in the middle
of a matte red leather booth
Thick cigar smoke
burns at her lungs
her cough lingers
in my ears
round and round
like a bug caught
in my right canal
struggling to be free
I excuse myself
and walk across the room.
I offer her my hand.
long black eyelashes blush
Our fingers intertwine
as
I guide her to the dance floor
feeling underneath my left palm
pearl buttons on the small of her back
the music
soft and low
the beat of a cello
bringing couples together
tight and close
hands around waists
reminiscing about their secret rendezvous
once
so long ago
but all I can feel
is the curve of her hip
as it follows my unimpressive box step
in her embrace
my mind reels back to the simplicity of
polka dot dresses lying on green grass
a picnic against the clouds
brown wicker baskets filled with homemade treats
wrapped in ribbons
the wind whipping up a full skirt
crinoline underneath
modest fingers pushing it down
embarrassed cheeks
underneath bright green eyes
The song ends.
The touch
of my wiry lips
on the top of her hand
thanking her for our dance
hoping that she stays with me
to fall in love
instead
She returns to her companions
long legs leaving in fishnet stockings
snickers from her thick painted mouth
looking over her shoulder at my shadow
her black hair a beautiful sin
I stand alone
hunched back
against a pale blue suit
single breasted
narrow lapels
Rotting fruit in a wicker bowl.
