Author: Lisa Marie

Man Avoiding Death

In the well of his eyes

a songbird drowning,

his last note shaking

the earth like an aftershock

Carrying a cane,

he mocks old age

and then beats him with it.

The various compounds in his

organs like chasms of

darkness sewn up into life.

In his neighborhood

the children shirk their

playful duties

break all the rules of youth

by filing taxes

and reading Schopenhauer.

In the bushes,

a sharpened surprise

awaits him.

Easters

The cloth Christ

hangs from the

peg on the wall.

My voice is in a vault.

God gave me the gift,

and he holds the key.

If I ever speak again,

my voice will be an Easter.

I am cold.

God’s son will warm me.

Lent falls off my life

Like a damp towel.

The vault door opens.

My singing rises in

praise of the risen.

Pastels

The lake was created

with pastels

and sometimes I smudge

God’s work a little

when I pass through.

In my little canoe

I row with only

a nebula for company.

The gestation time

for my poignant pointers

is seven days.

My pace swells.

On the shore,

so many men link arms

with so many women,

drapes and windows.

Ideas are born to separate.