TheBlossoms~II~

The animals in fine Italian suits amused themselves

by musing

how I had crawled out of Sylvia Plath's bones in 1965

into a man's arms;

he called himself father

gave me to bone cradles

and sweet musk moments in gypsy woman skins

the color of burnt sienna and cocoa

 

And he gave me to the wolves

but especially to old Enki  with the uncertain spine

one white blind iris a trade

for the old wolf's hips

injured by a hunters buckshot a decade before

outside of Morovia:

Enki became my bowl of milk in a cold world of wine people

he, my  uncle mud in summer flares

burning beneath a thousand cherry trees

as I, would  fall into his belly

out of the beautiful trap of monsters with glittering cufflinks

when I ached in shiver bones

mad to rip out of the fabric

of the family

 father's snare

sweet Venus nectar

desert spice

Asian illusions in Kabuki velvets and masks

 

I crawled out of Pandora's box to be beaten down

eaten down

by the golden paradox of my mother

her eyes so cornflower blue

her heart mad with childish glee

and brazen mistress ticks and tocks

unwinding around every married man in town

until all the women came to hate her beauty

 envied her skill

and wanted to shake the brazen flavors out of her

across their fares of bacon fat and cabbage stuffed with pork

and spices from the garden of the old man down the road

who kept the secrets of the village in his magician's cart

by a fresco of the Jesus and the Madonna

 

The first night I lost my mind

I shook my droplets of pheromones and dew mingled with sweetgrass

and pond perfume

out of my divided blood

across the veranda of marble

to startle the gentlemen and ladies

their crystal goblets become frozen in midair as I tumbled

over their preconceptions

out of my precocious marshmallow sweetness

and candied candy canes with which to tap dance

to delight into utter terror

into my unexpected overture

curvature of spine

a sonata in my throat as the wings beat

into my back out of prismatic fluctuations in Time

to fall

to crawl on all fours

shivering

against the silk trousers of the man who pulled me into Sylvia Plath's ash

Pandora's brazen fire;

he smiled

and said to the refined company

"The old ones tore them from her spine eons ago.  Sometimes they grow back."

and he smiled

his black eyes eating up their colliding emotions

with the same delight he had for lotus blossoms

and lavender dipped mulberries rushed with cream;

I have always been his cherries jubilee

have always been Enki’s child who, by the way

had a sense of devilish humor for a wolf

always egged me on to pop my spine wide open

to startle the daylights out of all the lords and ladies

with my blossom spirals in triple helix

 

 

copyright:2008vssmd/pa.inc

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

 

 

 

excerpt from . . . .

 

 

 

 

Reviews

[emmajoy]

' .. until all the women came to hate her beauty ~ envied her skill ~ and wanted to shake the brazen flavors out of her ~ across their fares of bacon fat and cabbage stuffed with pork ~ and spices from the garden of the old man down the road ~ who kept the secrets of the village in his magician's cart ~ by a fresco of the Jesus and the Madonna .. '

I love the above, there's such a contradiction but example of Pandora's - and subsequently, your magic against the ordinariness of the other women, it displays the very core of how a woman is, how she creates her own special touch on the men!

You really do create such wonderful tableaux.

[Matthew Kult]

Hello Again Selene,

I am afraid to say that anything I put her would not do justice to this epic piece of art. I could not do it justice, but I can tell you that I am grateful to have the priviledge to read your work.

Regards,

Matthew

[Robin]

I read this with a smile of awe and ah and ahhh ~

[Nancy S.]

No better way to start my day, than by reading words from one of your books. Here is the lacing of life and lyric, the mix of myth and mirage, spun in a style so uniquely your own, spun into a webbing of poetic enchantment.