Author: Lisa Marie

Irenic

My elation is straying.

Irenic,

My eyes close.

 

The man behind the curtain is hollow,

and the curtain has thousands

of loathsome love letters pinned to it.

 

My rabbit opines on my snowing skills.

The cold,

a little caustic,

Agrees.

 

In the refurbished grass

a wild warren dines.

I walk over,

pale as a breeze,

to feast.

 

Unravel. Revel.

Rolled in my silk sulk,

I am not purchased.

 

Rings,

roses,

so many odious pounds of plague

lurking in the water.

 

Kilowatt kilometer killing

 

Electricity winds through the wind.

 

I need an old marble career. Bees all have careers,

ambitious buzzing bees bringing fresh honey to my nude mouth.

My silken sulk vanishes,

unraveled. Revel.

Citrus Wars

Tangerine wars have been waged

on this page of history,

And the man in the dark gray jacket is about

to turn the page,

and the new page is plastered with little boys.

Some grow lemons.

Some grow limes.

At the bottom of the page

the great Citrus Wars break out

like measles in a less half hearted century.

I am the virus that stalks through the trenches,

muting and murdering.

This war so tangy and pulped,

is only a mid day snack.

My Little Yellow Cottage

Extra-societal throngs

Perambulate through my old home.

 

Oh little yellow cottage!

I adore you!

With your evanescent doors,

your windows that only speak open,

your encapsulating buttercup bloom walls.

You were designed for me.

 

If I pluck a strand of hair

and leave it in a corner,

will you remember me?

 

I have loved you since you sprung up from the ground.

Turn away anyone who loves you less than us.

At the back of the throng a face perks up,

falls in love with your nurturing.

 

Sold.