Lady From the Lake
She used to fuck them
just to leave them.
My mother would say.
Unabashedly confess with a sly smile
lying on the couch, legs crossed,
smoking a cigarette, always with a look
on her face that told you
she was getting away
with something quite clever
And then there’s me,
her beloved beloved bastard
beauty orphaned at nineteen,
a swinger of birch trees
with a ravenous fascination
for star garnets and tiny objects.
Every month for five days,
my body reminds me
that I am going to die
that I do not belong to a pathless wood
But I can’t seem to keep track of tomorrow
And yesterday, it never came.
Maybe it’s the way she
reminds me of the rain.
Her voice a soft strong
And the smell of a summer storm
on hot concrete pavement
She tells me she wants it all
every drop of rain
without any buckets or umbrellas
says it tastes like the earth & river rocks
Watch how she emerges from the water--
wet hair dripping
half baked and naked
in the corners of Sunday morning.
She walks with the shrugging shadows
quiet as stones in the cold bright,
a valley of stained glass hearts
I stand next to her in the soaking street
palms out, eyes closed
imagining the cat’s triangle
curled up under the tongue.
In a clear plastic bag tied up & left
on the sidewalk, stark white
blinded to life. We become
what we leave behind
like strangers passing by
reminiscing about “the good ‘ol days
back when we were fly boys, doing cool things
making money for the moon”
I do not know their meaning,
but the words make my toes smile
like dancing spam and frogs in top hats
like pickled poems and empty embassies,
like old dolls with cracked chests & singing banshees
a kneeling kiss, a baptized wish
bone biting and beautiful,
the best pleasure is to give pleasure.
And every poem is a love affair.
With a kiss from the gods Monah was conceived in a moment of passionate, unabashed adultery. Raised by her two shield maiden mothers, she learned at an early age to draw near to the the whispering forest, to dance with the wolves of the night, to fly with the wings of a harpy. On one sunny May day when the fates gave way, Monah was left as a young orphan with a keen sense of the unveiled world. She possesses a special ability to communicate with the souls of deceased writers and artists, and is frequently spotted having tea in some other realm with Virginia Woolf. She lives in a perpetual continuum, Galileo’s very own pendulum of life. Monah is, therefore, often unamused by societal normalities, complacent with cultural monotony, and only satisfied with the sharp breath of death.