| “untitled, she”
she wished she dreamed in foreign languages
in her world she strokes you in her arms,
draws you priceless artwork with markers and chalk
she'll let you paste the canvas to the frame
and convince you to hang it at eye level.
go for a walk—
she'll push you in the blue-green lake
throw random french phrases for you to catch.
while you wait for your tea an hour later you'll
talk about the book you never finished.
"it's alright," she says, "your ending was better anyway."
“The Way”
The way you move, it haunts these thoughts
You'll have to forgive the unclear memory,
the gods of sleep haven't been kind of late.
The way you draw her in- those arms, hands-
nothing really extraordinary, everything she wants.
You take the signal, take the lead
Darkness, quiet, skin, lips-
the comfort of yours near her own.
You know, you want, you give, you take
Deep, Intense, Aggressive, Fine.
The word "empty" doesn't fit here.
she felt it anyway.
“Blue Nude, Picasso”
She sat in the corner naked and ashamed,
not realizing her own beauty and mystery.
She hid her face away from the sun,
and ignored his offer for dance lessons.
Fingers calloused, and caked with mud.
Sweet breath of life, kisses and kisses,
vague reflections in whiteness and dark.
Brown, gnarled veins in love that perish,
but never smolder.
“One Cold Night in November”
She stares at the kitchen, where she would-
Nurse the restless baby at 4 am,
Make love near the wooden table,
Light a towel on fire while cooking,
Hum Beatles tunes while stirring tea,
Project a future without mortgages,
Silently weep in her loneliness.
Tonight the walls are smoldering,
Her mother’s china all but desecrated.
Smoke fills her dry and weary eyes.
“become children again”
the piano keys are chipped and long ago
a little girl sketched a drawing in the wood.
late at night she'd creak downstairs
to peak in her parent's room.
mother would give her a peanut butter
sandwich and grape juice in a plastic cup.
tonight she hits the repeat button to listen to
the songs of piano genius from Rufus and Ben.
she looks past the city lines and dreams of
far-off places and exotic animals as friends.
yet deep inside she still longs to come
home to innocence and simplicity.
so she holds her stuffed rabbit near her face
and whispers all her secrets and fears.
and realizes, we've all become children again.
“so thin as to transmit light”
ruminating chasms in your soul taunt
with chiding iniquity reminders and
like an eighteenth century physician
the flesh is taken for a bloody remedy.
who knew it sent the ill dying?
your emotional myriad pleading,
take me without religious judgment!
the reflective response silences
unneccessary belief of falsity and
your dark cloak is exchanged
for a shy gossamar vesture.
©2001-2005 Teresa Pecinovsky
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Words