Table of |
THE UNICORN SPEAKS
Though I have tried,
No bride comes out to play
In my tapestry.
The horn, grown brittle,
Might crumble to powder
At the first hit.
Still I should like
To try that exercise.
Tones the muscles, they say.
Makes the coat glisten.
A certain fire floods the eye.
I have a dim memory
Of such matters.
Golden hair and breasts and all,
But nothing specific.
That was before they spun my flesh
To fabric, wove this fence.
She looked a bit, I think,
Like that young nun yonder
Frozen these several hours before me,
Lips parched, telling beads.
(Blonde hair beneath her habit,
I perceive; quivering flanks,
Breasts like the fruit
That tempted Adam
From his greenness.)
Shadows encroach; she recedes
As the light does.
When she goes
Her space grows
Empty as death,
Nerveless as thread.
Earth, Wind and Fire
© Aldo Vigliarolo
A Hot Poetry Night in San Antonio
For Eddie Vega
the sound of South Texas
is the taste of hot sauce in his words,
sizzling fajitas bell peppered with passion
in every syllable conjuring up the women
from his past, my apologies to this poet
whose words I don’t recall but it’s
the hot music of love traveling at
the speed of language that transported me
to San Antonio not the plane I took out
of New York City….
the air was thick with language that night
we sat outside overlooking the river and
spooned chili spiced Mexican rice
out of words I breathed in, taking me back
to another hot June night, in love and for
the first time, eating with every sense I had
Origin of The Selfie Woman
It was the girl who fell into a mirror one day
and drowned, tripped, maybe pushed
her mother the prime suspect nudging her
to be more like this and like that & not the
no color to speak of girl she was pushing her
harder and harder who went missing one day;
couldn't be proved, a cold case nobody
thought about anymore, certainly not when
they passed a striking looking blond posing in
front of an art deco building, a camera perched like
a dead bird at the end of a long stick she held,
smiling at it, flipping her long hair back
toward those flashing billboard lights of
cameras transporting her to the crossroads of the world:
leaning against a mosaic subway station
in lower Manhattan, feeling like Miss Subway
heading to Lunar park, an out of control cyclone begins
spinning her glamorous funky torn-jeaned self
around the country onto digital newsstands,
no longer limited to street corners, or wishing
she looked like women in those magazines, she's
now flashed across the cyber globe--- hundreds
thousands with a single like feeding her what
she feeds to others
By Linda Lerner__