... squirm in your grave

by jeanne rené 

... a poem of man's inhumanity ... a bombing ... at a wedding ... an image of a wedding guest left lifeless in a chair and linen tablecloth placed over his head.  I've never been able to shake the image or the horror of the hatred. 

at the table

the wedding guest
languishes
in celebration
his arm dangles a toast to the times
the glass weeps, purged of its aspirations 
perverted reflections
in the sparkle of shattered desire
and glint of pooling blood
served up in the aftermath
and raised to our perspective
"to life" he cheers

undisturbed at the table
he waits

 ~ to life … to life … to life … to life!

under godly white linens
puckered round the shape of full lips
poised for his turn to kiss the bride
and dance beneath the ballroom canopy
swaying
box-stepping with the rhythm of electrical wires
exposed air ducts
cemented in an irreversible inhale
anxious to daydream in her arms
as they waltz mid the scatter of shard and ashes
"to life" he squeals

from out of the bowels of implausible

"to life, and may you all be left to … "

 

Copyright jeanne rené watson 11.05
Written some time ago ... still applies ...

~a woman's notebook~

 by jeanne rené

Two Women by Marie Laurecin 1883-1956

~a woman’s notebook~

this body mine
permissive
soft you say
fine downy flesh
i invite you
run your fingers over my willow arms
brushing back the silk-thin hair
and watch it fall back into perfection

please excuse this smile amused
as to what makes you think
i actually change my mind

child balanced upon round hips
strong pelvis
this body mine
the builder of men
these hands braced upon my physical fortitude
i invite you in

i paint my lips in shades of mona lisa mystery
and rest patience in my lap
until you see my cast iron bone
and ready bayonet
do not turn your back on me
to find i am the enemy of indifference
and that i strike with the intent of drawing blood

come
come surrender in my arms
drink my milk from swollen ready breast
wipe my tears
and bury yours in my hair cast across a scented pillow
let my body be a warmed coverlet
yours to rest beneath
but remember
i live the night with opened eyes

look upon my profile
follow the roman line of my nose
to once again the fine hair over my lip
and if you give touch to my quiet kiss
you will find the quake that lies deep within the earth

please excuse i stare at your look bewildered
to say only this in passing
~ absent the prerogative
i have had many a foot
placed grossly on my stomach
to hold me to a burial
but i am the loam
i am the rock
i am the fallen leaf
the worm
the brush
and the pregnant seed

to answer your question
the difference is
you do not see how much of a man
i am

~to these fathers, sons and husbands
i see all of me
that you hold inside

~and so it goes
with thoughts from a woman’s notebook~

copyright jeanne rené