I want to make clear
that it’s a question of the curlicues
and the chandeliers. The rest
you can stash, slash, or cash.
I’ll dissemble a toccata on the pianoforte
in the drawing room while you choose,
my Fata Morgana. The morgue
or the mosque of the impossibles.
Or is it the possibles? My near death
educated me: it’s the same thing,
love. Fever Chandleresque,
a phalanx of similies breathing in me,
squeezing. Nothing solid anymore,
nada, zilch. How that patchwork itches!
Bring me my twilight mai tai
with your hoary paw, it’s time
to read the old succulent
dramas tick-tocking on the mantel.
One can almost touch the fog
roiling in from the sea.
What’s mysterious is how
persistent the brightness behind it
actually is.
Once upon a time, longing choked me.
Don’t be sad on this day of remembering and malls.
The cat’s water frozen: tinny symphony of despair.
What we really know about light fills a very large sandwich.
I navigate blind and haunt beyond impulse’s pale.
Ick! Dregs should sink to the bottom of the cup.
Heat climbs onto your body, sticking like rape.
Brochures lure you to isles you’ll never ever tan on.
New love, little wet whistle, witch watch trotting fast.
You press the shutter—presto!—the mirror vanishes.
In a list of words one will always wink at you.
You can’t undo your thought palace, that busy aerodrome.
My room circling volumes and the bones of a small love.
Can’t we undo the teleology of boundaries?
Let it begin: the hunt for moonlight and susurration.
The rain’s svelte, subtle, grise; someone’s gonna get soaked.
Equivocating ghosts loll on luxe-trimmed trees.
Emotions suddenly guillotined with habit’s sardonic glee.
Getting wet’s nothing but immersion—cleansing, ritualistic.
Toes and fingers gleam taupe, this season’s to-die-for chic.
Magpie, ragtag raga outside the window, what do you auger?
Birches creak in 4/4 time while deer drift across the field.
Don’t try to remember. Doff the cloche of photographs.
Over time, dreamers collect figures they call “strangers.”
Haunted by bits of memory, chiaroscuro of disturbing feathers.
Judith Taylor is the author of two poetry collections, Curios and Selected Dreams from the Animal Kingdom, as well as the co-editor of Air Fare: Stories, Poems and Essays on Flying. Her work has been included in numerous anthologies and journals, including Poetry, APR, Fence, The Antioch Review, Pleiades, Conduit and Court Green. She is the recipient of a Pushcart Prize. Currently, she teaches private classes, travels, takes a lot
of photographs, and co-edits the poetry journal, POOL. Her third book of poems, Sex Libris, is forthcoming in 2013 by What Books.
ISSUE:
W I N T E R
2012
SUPPORT THE ARTS
DONATE TODAY
GET A FREE T-SHIRT!
By accessing this site, you accept these Terms and Conditions.
Copyright © 2010-2012 TheWritingDisorder.com ™ — All rights reserved