24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
We are always in-between,
even when our present version
is no more and has become
compost
Our smolderings can become exhausted
flickering out in becalming winds or
whipped up in the winds of change
consuming our present vision.
The hope for a bird of prey
to pluck up the embers
of my demonic cells
glimmers inside me
I will not
I will not
I will not
check the door
the lock
the handle
only to be flung back
against the wall when your
your hatefulness bursts across the
threshold without even breaking a sweat.
I will not.
I will not
I will not
cower in a corner
as you pepper my space
and spray my pink and green walls
with the buttons and blood
of all I kiss goodnight
No.
No.
No.
I will not check the door
the lock
the handle
and help you get in
only to wreak havoc and pain
leave me afraid…ashamed…alone.
No!
No!
No!
I will not.
I will not.
I will not
take the bait,
check the door
the lock
the handle
I will not
I will not
I will not
let you in
by checking whether you’re locked out.
No.
No.
No.
I will not.
I will not.
I will not
Damn it.
I will.
Again.
And again.
(Based on the painting by Frida Kahlo)
I sigh as I board the bus
on my way to the market,
my basket over my arm.
I notice,
as I do with everything in my life,
the irritation I feel
toward the others who share my bench.
Their open faces,
comfort with their own bodies,
while I age and
wear my unhappiness like a cloak.
I will plan a meal
for a man I once loved.
He will gobble it down
wordlessly
scraping his plate clean.
He will wipe his mouth
and grunt as his chair
moves away from the table.
I will wash the dishes
while he reads paper,
rustling the pages
and sighing as though he has
the weight of the world
upon his shoulders.
We will go to bed,
barely a word spoken
between us
our backs to each other,
not touching.
And I will remember
how he once
hungered for me
in my youth, my beauty.
Now my heart is as heavy
as my child-stretched middle
Both aching and empty
From lack of love,
His touch.
Eve Remillard
6/22/19
Your lips touch
my lips
tentative in quizzical
passion
once, twice
third time’s the…
leaning in
your lips touch
my lips
tightened anticipation
firm yet supple
I cannot pull my face
from yours
we have become one
yet I feel you
dissolve
vaporizing away from
me
thoughts ethereal
I hear you speak but you
aren’t there
your lips touch mine
but you
aren’t there
and I know I am
wide awake and alive
but the dampness
pillow on cheek
remembering you
could not have been there
at all
at last
as every time in the
past has proven
what I felt for you then
I still do now
never reciprocated
unrequited
in death as in life
mattering little as in
an hour or so
one of us
will need to simply
get up, and
go to work.
– Mark L. Lucker
© 2019
http://lrd.to/sxh9jntSbd
My heart’s core…
I’ve wondered at her before
Is she just the base composite of
Oxygen and carbon
Hydrogen and nitrogen
Calcium and phosphorus
I have played with new mixtures and reagents
Adding them gradually to change my essential nature
The Daedalus of my being’s own labyrinth
And the Pandora at its center
The creator and the created
Yellow bus comes to a stop.
Trees plowed down all around.
Disembarking— mountain top.
Lighting strikes— no sound!
Frozen Spider webbing sky.
From these cracks leap steed.
White angels riding from on high.
To the earth, they lead.
“What am I to do?” I think.
I hear a voice reply.
Stang directions from the brink.
“Newborn’s coast— go nigh.”
“Newborn?” questions I.
Is it still a proper brownstone
if it’s in Jersey? Six broad brick
steps open like arms, white concrete
banister a hand in open gesture.
Welcome. Unit B.
Does it matter if the details are wrong?
I tried.
Double doors slide apart, heavy as pianos
eyed in lead glass. The color is almost
cream. Almost yellow. Warped
wooden floors spread
hardened pulled caramel, pulled taffy.
The stained glass window stares onto the street
higher than anyone can reach. Cobalt and
cadmium red and yellow orange azo
in a perfect lead-lined circle twelve feet up.
Could it have worked? Us?
White and cobalt tile in the kitchen.
Plastic bat lowered on fishing line
spinning, facing an iron barred window. Two
squirrels stare in through more lead-lined glass.
How much lead was in that place?
How much lead in me?
Window half open onto the fire escape.
Twenty-four inches to save a life. Scrappy
orange striped tom comes and goes. Habanero
is his own cat. The fire escape
is for smoking and confrontation.
How is he? How is he?
Half a slanted closet waist high
is meant for liquor and board games. Some books.
Some sheets. Enough space to hide a grown man
like the crease of an overpass. Lead painted
wooden door. Lead paint flakes
off in layers. The door is more paint
than wood. More lead than wood.
I’m sweating the lead out. I’m sweating
you out. Lead beads on my brow and down my back.
I’m becoming clean again.
The sun burns
The wind blows
My sweat pools
My body aches.
Long days
Short nights
Hard work
Little time.
Eat.
Sleep.
Work.
Repeat.
Similis Papilioni
I see my reflection on my computer screen. I’m covered
with a bouquet of flowers, roses, berries, purple buds waiting
to bloom. The bouquet sits above butterflies resting
on top oranges, feasting on its juice, long tongues snaking
into the pulp. My screen darkens the image and I pop
through. My face is hidden by blossoms, my body by wings.
But if I move my head, tilt it to the side, I see my eyes poking
out. It reminds me of what I’m told to be: beautiful,
gentle, still, before I burst through my delicate shell and fly.