All you need is less

  
I'm not looking for a husband,   
but, out here on the island   
where there's a castaway's view,   
I can tell who might have   
camped the volcano with me   
to discuss the diaphanous   
beauty of secrets   
and the door left open   
to an abandoned excavation   
too succulent to pass.   
Enter here, secret:   
All you need is less.     
    
Discontentment is a door;     
wanting to laugh hard   
with someone who knows you   
without knowing you     
is also a door.     
But, I'm into entire rooms   
of star where I keep knocking   
around God's furniture     
on this planet called earth,   
forbidding myself to wander     
too close to any real poem   
I could write for fear   
of being discovered.   
    
There's a graveyard full     
of my poems; I visit     
and offer condolences     
to aborted words     
conceived in desire.     
Reflect on the parts     
of me that remain sturdy     
and faithfully married     
to the human side     
of Life. A woman     
without continents   
or coyotes scratching     
the distance   
between civilization     
and happiness;   
suburbs with Subaru's     
in the drive, homes safe     
in the 3:00 P.M. light   
living methodically.     
    
Every man and woman     
needs to decode messages     
from their god to make sure     
their dark side wasn't passed     
up for an early sleep     
with a husband or wife     
they wanted but could not Love.   
    
Loyalty to the colony     
of strays that live     
within the paintings     
and poetry of an unknown     
language few decipher,     
black compositions     
of starry lyrics     
and risen Lazarus     
are true reflections     
of the species     
and belief that I     
am constantly     
mapping a course     
of time through     
by existing simply.     
    
This altered DNA   
immortally coiled in flesh   
is something that one day   
soon I will remember   
having helped knit.   
Until then...   
A new shipment of hope   
arrived today. God sent me   
spirit guides to keep my Angels     
company through the wait;     
the long haul of packing     
all I've known for the move:     
a white wolf and horse,     
a snowy owl in case     
I choose an alternate route   
and bareback it out   
through the canyon.     
    
I'm not looking for a husband;   
I left that sixteen years ago.   
But, out here on the island   
where there's a castaway's view,   
I can tell who would have     
camped the volcano with me,   
discussed the preservation   
of a simple and secluded     
togetherness without any     
pomp and circumstance   
too succulent to let pass.   
    
Enter here, secret:     
All you need is less.   
Isolation is the core   
of my soul's blueprint...   

~
March 2016

You must know

      
“It was at that age     
that poetry came in search of me.”       

      
You must know there are times I will not choose you       
over the poem; I will not choose your letter, your email,       
text, call, or pouting silence over the poem; I will not       
be swayed by your bulging zipper or swollen suitcase       
by the door. If you want to be first in someone’s life       
you must know it can never be mine.       
      
I'll never be the faithful wife skinning carrots at the sink,   
a gimlet eye’d grandmother supervising, her starched apron       
and recipe splayed submissively across the counter, contents       
spooned carefully by measured taste; the roast, flayed      
awaiting its wake to commence, garlic attendees of potatoes       
and skinned carrots following into the oven's heated pyre.       
      
I will never be the faithful mistress at the door holding       
a drowning olive in a cocktail donned in your favorite négligée,       
alarm at attention so we don’t fall asleep, alerting your wife       
to your late absence. I will be in the bathroom with the poem     
instead; the gluttonous tub splashing imagery over its porcelain       
skin with each spit of the candle and stroke of the pen.       
      
You must know in bed I'll fantasize about the poem, how it carried me       
continent to continent, shielding my isolated survival from extinction   
sought by laundered mindsets whose truth hung on clotheslines   
before ironed into their firm sects of belief, spreading themselves   
as meticulously embroidered modesty sheets to carefully monitor   
the privacy of conjugal enjoyment.     
      
You must know the poem is 'One Hundred Years of Solitude',       
its banana plantation abandoned by death; it’s 'All the [archived]       
Names' without Ariadne’s Thread, the Life that Pi actually dreamt,       
'The Shipping News' reporting anthologies, modern American beats       
underground; it’s 'Water for Chocolate' torched by match heads;     
it's 'Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil'; it's Romeo; it's Juliette.       
      
You must know that if betrayed by lies or entrapment I will escape,       
elope, even commit suicide with the poem before being captured alive;     
we’ll die together, deeply inhaling the afterlife as Plath did – taping       
your sleeping existence from joining us, towels caulking the door frame;       
and you, you must know you'll wake lonelier than you’ve ever been.       


~       
      

July 2016
      
Literary references:  Pablo Neruda, Gabriel García Márquez,       
José Saramago, Yann Martel, E. Annie Proulx, Laura Esquivel,       
John Berendt, William Shakepeare, Sylvia Plath.

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November, 2016

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by TamArtsy