The story is sketchy at best.
Owls gathered and the bark shed itself from the oak
As tears pooled into torrents of lodestars.
Tornadoes collided and the princes fell from their towers
Holding the gold of dragons and peasants.
I heard the bells rang thrice and the priests,
Against their rosaries, called, “Lord, bring us.”
I needed no milk. I took to scarabs, those chocolate clocks.
I rode the Cyclops, my brave heart, and called canyons
With the beating thrill of thunder.
The tails of foxes bent into ?s.
The skunks danced and raided –
My good kin.
The subtle mercy – I cared less for it –
Demanded fiction in the burning of skin.
“Kill her,” someone whispered.
Nails bent. A witch walked on water.
Even now, I court Medusa’s daughter –
The maker, the ender.
Someone released the Necromancer.
A writer flew from the hand of a muse.
Poems spoke my purpose.
Poems re-created the real of another’s imaginings –
That was the key to my survival
And to grow my own vine to magic –
Likewise, to misery.
The man blots his eyes with the sun – he hopes to capture another Lucy
To call from the door. I had hoped to be the chosen actress, but there are C cups
And champagne drinkers ahead of me, and the night dabbles its wand in the thick dusk.
Every man has his prize and the fat girls starve themselves for it.
Even the ugly guys weep their beautiful screenplays – attribute the higher arts
To virtues uncovered by dinosaur bones – a three hour disaster on boats with wine
And we landlocked look on, dreaming of them.
I have read your Mr. Ed resume. I have looked between lines for the cocaine you promised
And the dancing polka-dot bikinis. You were a liar before you arrived, and now you are perfectly
Suited, a dressed banana for signatures and benzo-shocked starlets. You had a runner,
A desert dwelling bitch who couldn’t stand the noise. Vacuum and insomnia, you did her in.
Do you like anything? I have heard you monkey your lines in supermarket aisles,
Pretending your pretty goods can float like the traffic that pours aimlessly into here.
Here is the T-bird you didn’t expect to win, when your name pulled the asphalt dragsters
And we ate the deserts, the cold dog star flashing out need. And we glowed in the sex-light
Of too much wisdom. Out there, I pulled you in. I made you king and kindred,
But we all learn the vengeance – how to float on the polluted red sea of metropolitan slaves.
Honey, you made your address shine and sparkle.
What you promised
Was a fool’s gold, and I, the fool to spin that wheel.
The family descended – the maps were burnt.
Everyone was asked to send donations instead of flowers.
Teachers lamented, “That girl never learned.” Ice cream melted
in boys’ hands, frogs floated to surface. You see, a girl should remain planted.
No story can end with ascension. The story must bear a point,
an edge, some form of pain only known when a woman appears.
If there is no lesson, the family frowns. How will she ever learn?
When a girl wears rags, she is allowed. When she grays into paper
the townspeople rejoice – spring is made. A woman – a story, that is, can be written only when she eats the frozen hand of a priest or when a wolf licks
his paws, sated with her – then she can be.
But she must not have been allowed to leave. The story, what of the story?
The old owl cries, the doors slam. Who shall bear this damned story?
What queen will suffer the stiff legs of age as the price of love demands?
This is a fair trade, trade for a girl rooted in the family name – so they may ever fly and sing. A girl must make the bed. A girl must be the bed
where a man may take her body and light the night – the darkest halls.
When she left her body for stars – a woman was no longer here, a moral.
A woman who was not a spell, but a woman, real and blood-born – not broken in to be written of or into moon – a heroine to decline your stories, to rise up and into her own existence.