Fridayam's BlogWho can ever write the
perfect love poem, half
heartache, half
heartbreak, completely
lost and almost found,
cast up on some
alien shore watching
buoys and gulls all
adrift on the same
choppy sea?
I’m not sure Ms. Alcott had
this in mind but I love
loud women in my life,
singing their songs full-throated,
spearing their words through
vain assumptions,
shaking pulpit and
parliament and shouting
“harder, faster” into my
receptive ear.
Thank God nobody is perfect for
love would have no
grip for its wind-blown seeds to find
cracks and crannies in
seemingly solid surfaces to
sprout and spread its
sharp tendrils to
cover what would have been a
bare wall with
wild flowers.
The house grows old with us, and it’s
open to question which of us
creaks and complains more as the
stairs are climbed.
That tap takes two or three
turns to get going and the
flow is not
what it was.
That light in the kitchen
flickers and fails, but a
rap or two makes its
heart beat again.
That radiator never seems
hot until the key
lets out a
delicate brown fart.
That window never opens
that window
never opens
properly.
Days aren’t of themselves onerous: there are
hard moments but it’s mostly
boredom, a big old
empty building in which
shafts of sunlight
pierce through holes in
dusty brickwork and you
hope to find yourself
illuminated once in a while.
She was unloved abruptly, as though
unFriended on Facebook where all the
family photos, the inane comments, the
frapes, the smileys, all those
terrible moments of happiness
hung nakedly in front of the
whole world, the laundry she
put out clean now
dirty again.
The storms rolled down the valley like
dark pearls gathering
sun and sticky heat and
gumming them together into
fat envelopes for
posting elsewhere.
We want love to be the
centrifuge of life, spinning the
scoria into oblivion, leaving
only purity behind, but
design flaws, outages, our
inability to follow the
simplest instructions means the
shit keeps seeping back into the
autoclaves of our hearts,
spoiling everything.
Carondelet cruises Mississippi
an upturned cooking pot afloat
broiling the men inside
bristling with guns
looking for fights and finding them
sluicing the blood of dead and deafened men
scouring the great
drainage of the West from
war’s hopeful hoopla start to its
sullied and bitter end.
Cumberland Ohio Missouri
Yazoo Red all
belch their waters into
Mississippi’s great churn and
she sailed them all (though
she barely got out of Red
caroming over rapids)
and their endless bayous overhung with trees
dripping with snipers.
She took her hits but
never lost a fight and when
they came to scrap her found
she’d gone in the night
on a flood tide, preferring
the grave of her enemies
to that of her friends.
Each night I dread putting on that costume,
pulling on that character, her plain
shift, knee-length stockings, the hated
“pair-of-bodies”, farthingale, bum-roll,
petticoat, kirtle, partlet, all topped with the
splendid silk gown and for “authenticity”
no knickers, so that I feel
naked despite so much clothing, so
obsessed with my bare sex, so
alive to “country matters”.
I think of the boys who played my part but
with a part I didn’t have, dangling—
did they have some codpiece, some
protection I am not allowed?
“Beginners” doesn’t mean me so
finally finished I can look at myself:
I am 26 but look 16 so if I were her I
could be married and
dead of my fourth child by now and
I think of it…..No
I think on’t. Think of being just a
poppet (but a poppet with thoughts and
hormones) bred to be bred,
pimped by my family for…
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