ADVICE I’D GIVE MY DAUGHTER
Do not fear –
Much is wasted
Cowering against the moment.
Some things are
Forever. Value
Yourself; you are one
Of them; this space
Is crossable;
I did and you will.
Thirdly, I’ll be with you.
No matter how
No matter where
I’ll be with you
And your daughter
As you do it.
Constellation Vulpecula
The Little Fox
Cuckoo’s darling
Sphinx-lipped hound stink
Springs a balance tipped by weakness
Of the Mighty. Doing
The Master’s dirty work
For centuries now
You should know your way around.
Sidereal astromancer
Always smiling – Bone poor
A busy employee
Avoids the traps of the past.
Someone else’s coffers you’re
Lining now you hypocritical
Suit of someone else’s armor.
Andromeda: The Chained Lady
She won’t complain
Trailing chains like widows weeds
Foci of dissonance
Her suffering draws us to her
Hub of sky.
Somebody owes somebody
Something here, that’s plain.
Wristbound, poor Miss
Bredwell, accomplishment
Depletes her
Energy enrages her
Passion disgusts her
Unfree, a natural born
Victim, a true
Lady.
JOB DESCRIPTION
Do nothing.
Be no one
Scrub the spaces in between
Your life will be measured
In others spare time.
I say those have failed to pass
Who failed to wash
The scuts of infants
Failed to harmonize the
Broken breathing.
Who made garbage of the children’s eyes?
Newborns drip a cream more holy
Than the sacraments. They are born
Little calliopes
Singing whalesong.
Incendiary at one
Stargazer at three.
Who failed to pass?
I pass on eternity and
A taste for taking time
Coaxing twisted trackways
Into light; slow the world by hand
If necessary; slow enough
For the children
To get on.
CAPITOL GHOSTS
Pale Guiteau
slants his disappointed child’s face
downwards; the better to study bloodstains left
by assassins more accomplished than himself
who required benefit of anonymous surgeons
specially qualified for skewering
the muscles of the mighty.
The guard who saw him
claimed also to hear demon cats
and could not be relied upon.
these portents once were matters of
congressional dispute; now
no matter; caught within the marbled lurch
of history, victims
of the uninspired mad;
those who pursue the corpse from whom
the ghost escaped. He haunts our history
like the villainous barber who sings as he slits
both throats and wombs, a pure tune
some say, picked clean of tragedy
which only the dying hear.
THE WITNESS
You say you love me for myself but
I killed that bitch out of jealousy
Now as sole survivor
I’m the only clue.
She was the confidential client
I left to clean up after.
In the furnace of morning I lie
Between darkness and wolfcall
Charges taunting me like
unborn children:
Ask him to marry you, mommy!
Ask him! Ask him!
This messenger ticks –
Impatient watch –
Anxious to be set going.
Some new clean thing lurks
Along the border of
Imagining.
My
Severing fire of
Intent cuts your leash.
Be off! Don’t
Rely on me; we’ll select
What we want from
Who we are. You hunt
And I’ll imagine.
Only.
Such loyalty outlasts
The stinking viscera
Of self.
Without Angels
The sky would be
Impenetrable
No mimicry to mirror
Us
Celestially
Backless vertebrates
Aswim
Amongst the clouds
Must be invented.
Even lava
Formed faces at first
(We know this)
Pushed out puckers
That spat like mouths.
Birds fly like angels but
It’s difficult
Their eyes separate to
Points of seeing
We cannot drench with self.
And the reptiles!
Such slow uncles
Shave-brush fins and boxer stance
Their beats too slow to follow.
We midwife angels
As in the fairy tale
That children so admire
The coins appear as quickly
As we wish to spend
Rushing us through spheres
Of carousels of
Space
To meet ourselves our
Unspent ghosts
Coming
Back.
God said, “Bring for the creeping things”
It is you who are a creeping thing thinks Lord Julian
Of his pasty priest, with the
Underdone face.
Were he a fish I’d throw him back.
Good thing his knees are flexible as his
Scripture. The priest speaks
Of dominion, something
His lordship understands. It means
Possession without surrendering the
Self. Power begs abuse.
He’s the master, he alone
Understands that here. Necessity’s
The chain that stops the dumb animal
Straying. Lifting eyes to the
Steepled trees he feels the boredom of fall
Fade into the dullness of winter.
The animals would be fat
Were any left – ripe for scissoring but
He ripped too many out.
Life’s start and stop – a blood bath brings
Renewal. These men could stand a wallowing.
They await his pleasure with
Lowered eyes.
His pleasure is not them. He needs
Men glamorous as girls, hopes
As high as fever but none
Are to be found.
Like the animals, they are gone.
Julian’s scarred hands twitch the reins –
Each scar is named, he counts them proudly:
Attempted usurpation
The burning brand, the bear that fought
The dog that turned on him
The boar defending young.
Past pain surmounted
Makes him long for wounds –
A cut so deep he looks into
The creature’s eyes for
Some sweet glimpse of freedom.
Lord Julian, the scorpion-hearted
Scents a smell the dogs can’t follow –
The jingling behind him should be men
The silky shadow should be deer.
His horse afraid – the creature moves
Too smooth – when he dismounts
Avenger plummets off – now
He’s alone in moss and slime.
This thing is stalking him!
He sees it through the trees
Smells hot stink – a tiger!
What ghost is this?
The prickled hairs stood high – he threw
His knife – a sailor’s trick but
Useless. He saw boars
Twelve deep, spirals snorting
Through their tusks. The trees
Morphed into deer and every beast
He’d ever killed surrounded him.
Face forward in the muck
At least the mud was real.
Fox feet pattered, the tiger whisked him
With its ruff – he dreamed a lifetime
Lying there – every friend a slight
And every promise broken.
This dark that stops his ears is surely death.
But when he stands it’s not hell he sees but
Dripping swamp. The mare he kicked and drove
Now leads him home. His blood is dried
But he must cleanse the blood of others.
To be struck he understands, now he must
Know what spared him.
Washerwomen lift their heads
At his approach – they don’t recognize this man.
Hiding faces not from fear but
Some new glory.
Chapter Five – Fantasy Wedding
Mirabel cinched me tight.
“There!” The mirror exposed a stranger.
I was a new person.
“Too much dress” said Mirabel,
“But with skyscraper shoes…”
From the closet she threw out bundles.
“I’d rather wear flats,”
I told her.
She reproved: “Verne is very tall.”
Who cares how tall HE is?
“Bridesmaid shouldn’t tower over bride!”
I suggested;
Reining in the
Clashing egos.
In weird familial telepathy
Mirabel declaimed,
“Princess Richenda
To the Dark Tower came.
Just like Tarot cards.”
I admired my nude, mirrored
Ribboned back.
“But how about your dress?”
“You’ve seen it.”
Like breath went out of her –
She tossed it out – they were identical.
How could that be?
Wasn’t that too strange?
I was gobsmacked –
Never heard of bride and bridesmaid
Wearing the same dress –
Think of the confusing pictures –
People getting entirely
Wrong ideas.
“Isn’t that bad luck?” I questioned;
“The groom will see the gown
Before they’re hitched” – Ending
Lamely, “If you believe
That sort of thing.”
I petered out because
No one DOES believe that sort of thing.
“My dress is size “zero” –“
Sniffed Mirabel –
Competitive,
Combative Mirabel, and I was silenced.
She knocked my phone right out of my hand –
Sussing out my efforts to bring in troops –
Mom would NEVER approve of this!
“No pictures till the wedding.”
Her pressured speech rushed on –
And on – “And now –
we dress for dinner.”
More fantasy clothes.
I looked embarrassed at my
Wrinkled skirt
Discarded
Carapace along the floor – shriveling
Like my pride.
Mirabel threw open mirrored
Doors to reveal another bedroom –
This one stocked with girlish stuff.
“This room is yours -”
She told me –
“He’s staying at The Stanhope.”
I blushed – I don’t know why –
He’d called this residence “his” –
But these closets were packed
With Mirabel clothes so
Where did I fit in?
My sister unbound my dress –
I’m not used to
Clothes that need assistants.
There’s no getting out of these gowns
Without help.
“These are yours -”
Blue slits whose ruffles
Matched my eyes –
A dress with scales –
Peekaboo and baby-doll
Price tags proclaiming
The less the dress the more the cost.
No bras here either –
And everything my size.
What was going on?
Angrily I chose heels to tower over
Mirabel – we’ll see who’s boss –
But she didn’t seem to mind.
Her makeup kit delivered
smoky eye, nude mouth and
Emerald glitter.
“Verne hates the kiss of
Lipstick.” Who cares?
These people kiss the air – I couldn’t
Get the hang of this.
She wore cherry red chinoiserie –
Now I’m impostor too.
“He’s waiting at the Stanhope Bar.”
We were silent in the elevator.
I clutched the fur I’d borrowed
Feeling naked –
Summoning up my nerve but
Maribel seemed depressed.
Deflated. Encumbered?
With me? With Verne?
With family obligation?
Traditions I could
Only guess at? I tried to play my role.
“So… how did he propose?”
My query’s gaucheness seemed
Amplified by elevator doors
Whose golden mirror
Bent our beauty so
Unflatteringly we seemed
Haunted.
“It’s not about when he proposed,” she
Told me crisply, “but
“When I accepted. He
Proposed the first night we met –
Five years ago –
Said we’d marry –
If he could get approval
From his trustees.”
Much to puzzle out in here!
So trustees must propose to Mirabel?
O Bad New World that has
Such creatures in it.
“Five years ago? Was this a secret?”
Why didn’t anyone – snoopy Richenda in fact –
Find this out?
“He hates the press – “ says Mirabel,
Whose explanations
Don’t explain. “He
Wants me to himself. And I was so unready –
seeing other people…LOTS of other people.”
Poor Verne!
We nodded at the doorman,
Safe beside the limo
I whispered, “How’d he win
You over?” But Mirabel
Did not seem to want to discuss
This sacred aspect of their story. She dismissed me.
“He was so adoring.”
She bundled me inside the car then
Backed away confronted by a ghost.
“I forgot something. Tell Verne I’ll be along.”
The car swept away, leaving Mirabel
Huddled by the curb – overwhelmed by
Her mink coat.
Alysse Aallyn 