A Woman of Flight

He stepped out five minutes ago, leaving her unkissed,

rustled words tongue-tied  remain retained.

The mind ponders half sentences, opportunities missed.

They become potholes in the brain.

 

The door’s glass reflected the least confident woman she knew,

And the least content woman anyone else was sure to know,

With pleasurable peaks hoarded like kitchen knives.

The sentient mind wanders but maintains its silence.

 

The pencil wavering between blue lines, fell silent

onto a well-waxed surface.

Who writes letters anymore?  She sighs.

Turning her head, as if opening a gate unnecessarily, she takes in

The midday sunshine pulling up smells of mud and pine

Post fondling by the morning rain.

Torching the touch libidinal release craves.

 

Hold on to one floating thought; would you?

She knocks her cigarette on the edge of the ashtray,

With a slight flip, to her lips, inhale and withdrew.

This makes her feel steady, normal, routine.

How long did we stay in love?

Half truths are less inclined to string you up, she warns.

God the heat! Motionless, everything seemed to be suffocating.

The words cling to her throat, wadding up and holding tight.

And she couldn’t write them down.

The sentient mind wanders but maintains its silence.

 

Close your eyes.  Pull back time, she urges,

Until segmented parts feel cemented.

The buds of words hesitated even then,

When she was nervous with the surging of love.

Youthful exuberance yielded fruits, the conventional sort:

children, homes, things, useless things.

 

Life’s prickling, like prickers pressed inside her lower jaw,  clawing furrows,

Forking the end of her tongue, garbled metaphors misunderstood.

The vinegar shots in an onslaught of social expectation

Burned a hole into her with the cyclic movement of  time.

Vinegar and prickers, environmental hazards or even perhaps

Conspiratorial patterns, the pre-sewn seams of womanhood.

The sentient mind wanders but maintains its silence.

 

Some variant of weakness shackles each woman’s feet.

She didn’t know the woman she read about, whose boyfriend threw the baby

Out of the window of the moving car, but she’d cut herself for her.

She didn’t know any of the young girls kidnapped, sold into slavery, left to die,

But she’d bled for them.

 

Leaning back in her chair, she looked out the window,

Like she was looking for Jesus out an empty eye socket.

Everything goes on, as if nothing else were happening.

That quasi-optimism just makes her angry,

Angry at the fierceness you have to develop.

Is that how the last poem ends, not bringing out the best in you,

But brokering for souls and maintaining diligence when setting snares?

The sentient mind wanders but maintains silent.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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