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Missing

There is that something about you

that’s like an incredulous piece of some divine puzzle,

some little thing that falls soundlessly to the floor

disappearing under the sofa or chair

and in spite of itself has not been missed until now.

Your hands are grasping for that lost piece,

that reaching—-

a drawn out sigh

a cat stretching its paws.

You are lost somewhere between that sigh and all of time and heaven.

You are reaching outwards towards some unanswered question on your Prufrock place,

the empty and awaiting space

searching always for what there was that was missing.

El Cielo Drive August Ninth, 1969

They are staying in for the weekend

joyful

the baby in the woman’s belly

floating

the stylist braiding her hair

casually

the heiress handing her a cup of coffee

respectfully

It is just a small party of friends on this humid August night

intimate, really.

Someone walks by the open bedroom door

unrecognized

but’s it’s okay, this is an  open house after all

and friends do have other friends.

Suddenly there are more,

three women

unrecognized

who pronounce

“Come with us.”

 

Ashes

Ring around the rosy

We scoop you up fistful by fistful

spread you evenly among the gardenias and the roses

as we coat your garden with the film of you.

A pocketful of posies

You are now the sooty remains

gathered from the bottom of a fireplace

after a long winter’s night

Ashes, ashes

This is all that’s left,

these hands sifting through

the sand of you,

a requiem.

We all fall down

 

 

 

 

Dan and Emily

she squirms and daintily moves the angle of her legs from time to time

as intermittent sighs drift their way across this distance.

he waits in the sidelines of her vision as evening lumbers clubfooted towards moon time.

she longs for his advance

for his foot to turn an inch, any indication suggesting interest.

there are distractions:

the symphonies play

the stereos jive

and outside

the wind and the trees

the lightening

the hail

stomp through the balcony and announce their selves.

 

he could be fishing in Wisconsin for all she knows,

dreaming of walleye an arm’s length or better,

yet every once in awhile her right side is bathed by his pensive gazing

as he watches her

as he just watches her.

 

Before You Were Born

In this way I held you and spoke to you

holding long conversations

my arms caressing my basketball sized stomach

as I told you everything I was doing every day.

You were for that interval detained,

floating dreamlike within your aquarium globe.

I would speak to you whenever the outside volume

became too distracting—-

when the threat of impending violence tensed the surrounding air.

He would be ranting about something

and so I would sit on the edge of the bed and sing to you,

“Don’t you listen to him; mommy loves you”—

my arms around the you inside of me—

placing my palms just where I thought your budding ears might be,

to keep you, I hoped, from hearing his voice.

Once, before you were born

I ran from him down the street

and again my arms desperately held you.

This time they formed a kind of lift, a restraint

against the jostling of juices as I held my bountiful belly

like a young boy who has just kidnapped a prized ripe watermelon from the neighbor’s yard.

Before you were born,

as your first endocrinological  seas were forming,

establishing their own recipe transmuted from his ocean and mine,

I did not know then you would memorize those voices,

that you would carry them with you,

an imprint left

before you were born.

 

 

 

 

 

Where Poets Post

Starting today Tuesday the 21st of April and every Tuesday hereafter, I will post one of my poems. BUT, the exciting thing is I invite you to send me yours to dmariefitzgerald.com, then click on reruns: poetry and prose/official site of d. marie fitzgerald/author. Enter your poem in the comment box and I will post your poem on my site. If you wish a critique let me know. Let’s have some fun sharing our work!

Here goes:

Lonely Night in Sugartown

Street light burning

bulb hanging down below a willow tree

wrought iron from the balcony staring

white framed window pane house.

rugs hanging out to dry

and company’s coming

pot roast dripping blood

over Formica

to Formica.

The lady of the house is not in

she’s sitting in the bathroom

with a snifter of Drambuie

dripping of humidity

and smoking away the time.