Ars Poetica: Fireworks

THE WOMEN gather under the trees.

They bring gifts, food, and chairs.

They are gypsies and queens, oracles, saints,

Jezebels and jesters, healers, sages, and warriors.

And when the circle is complete, the magic begins.

Shyly, with dainty movements, they take turns,

shifting aside their robes to expose

missing limbs and gaping wounds.

The others gather close and peer, heads cocked,

eyes straining, and they chant,

"That is lovely, that is good,"

and the wounds stop weeping,

and they melt into scars,

silvery and light and beautiful.

Then the women lean back and laugh,

and they stretch, sensual and fierce,

like cats in the sun.

Sunday, March 4, 2012

These women are like fireworks

I've stood in the dark and

I've peeked at them through my fingers

They sizzle and hiss

like sparklers

They go off

like roman candles

I want to get close enough to reflect their colors

feel their heat

smell their sulfur

but there is danger there

I look at them

but if I get too close

they might see me

I listen to them

but if I get too close

they might hear me

I want to know them

but if I get too close

they might know me

--Sappho