I saw beautiful men and
beautiful women. I had lucked out,
all this beauty; my heart’s a drummer
with a stick and feather. My mother held a gnarled club
and beat me gently… The man I had,
the gentle man I loved –
could I not love him full and whole? To commit
is to renounce – a pretty life, or one lit in red.
My wiring does not bleed into
our lover’s bed.
And with that purple face I took
the other’s hearts,
with special care.
The kisses that you spit on, I have bottled them
with lavender and thyme.
not the numerics against my skin
scratching their prophecy
nor length of hair
there’s no Disney moment left
we examine in our woven display
the paper-cut fold of our life story
I list in dusty light
urging you to like me, for my tempered fears at night
the way you nailed the door shut
told me everything hadn’t been true just jagged words
I like you you said
I love you you said
rinse the violence, curb the taunt
Formed on lips sucking guile
waiting for something better
didn’t anyone tell you?
it’s impossible to tear down girls without strings
‘Tis like a fairytale’;
they likened years of ancient life
to books so writ by men whose graves were lined
by such fantastic pages.
That disparaging smile quick gained
upon a sip from self-worship’s cup,
pride’s bright goblet drained quite dry that night.
And with that shrivelled heart
I set up camp;
a canvas sanctuary.
here is the lipse and lapse of time,
winding down her day which is long turning to clay and becoming reborn,
maybe, that’s why they invented skyscrapers
reculer pour mieux sauter, whilst the rest of us,
flowering in lotus dark
are eaten by pretend bees,
whose yellow and indigo stripe
taunt race memory,
the bed is dry, my feet too soft,
everything has reversed, even bath water tastes like gin
and music playing during the car crash, was the same song heard in the rain
when (you) nodded, pressing blurring fingers to glass
whatwouldhavehappenedif, I’d stayed in the dream,
let it take me to Vancouver island
lived beneath my skirts and kept you at arms length, is it too late to find out?
Has the core of an apple, a seed that will grow
See, these remains are in the dirt
With swirls of blood and clods of hurt.
I have woken in my earthen bed;
Like a turbine in tempestuous plot
I reap these blows. The future’s fed
With windy morsels, sweet and hot.
When tempest summons the grief of chance
No more lost in turmoil, I cleave toward ending darkness
In hopeful stretch, my cocoon of childhood shedding
For this diminishment is greatly exaggerated
I am complete, burning oxygen in my song of survival
Nothing defeats the rise of woman lest permission granted
And I say no, you will not dine on my regrets
Lois is a poet and student from England. She is studying the literature of the Romantics and hopes their values and innovations will filter through into her own work. She is working on longer projects at present, with a hope to publish poetry collections and novels in the years to come. She is a feminist, an nostalgic optimist, and a quiet voice in the shadows of Joanne Baillie and Charlotte Smith. It is a pleasure to present her work, and you can find more of it at Lois E. Linkens.
Candice Louisa Daquin is a French author of five books of poetry. She is publishing her sixth collection this year and working on her first book of prose. Daquin is actively involved with several writing collectives including Sudden Denouement, GoDogCafeGo, Hijacked Amygdala, Indie(B)lue, TheWhisper&TheRoar and RUSH among others. Daquin’s work is featured in many online magazines and publications among them; RATTLE, North American Poetry Review, Voices de la Luna, and MemoryHouse Magazine. Her collections of poetry are sold through Barnes & Noble, Amazon and Finishing Line Press. You can read more of her work at The Feathered Sleep.