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It isn’t as if
I must put on
the Queen’s English
to be around you.

It isn’t as though
I should feel
the need to rebel, or
that my solitude

is a luxury
instead of a right.
Rather, these are
the whale-bone songs

of a well-worn battalion,
poised as I am
at every solstice,
footsore at the door.

This is simply
the ebb and flow
of ambrosia
that sets the pendulum

to swing
in different arcs
of fool’s gold,
the soft footings

at the edge of my radar.
This is the culture shock
of living dead girls
undergoing a seismic shift

in the round
mountain ash,

in a sea of voices,
while shadows cast
a romantic screen.

For every one that succeeds,
millions of others fail.
So tell me
how it should be,

that I could live
on my knees
and weep honey tears
as my dreams escape me.

Because this is
a death of sorts.
The phoenix rises,
only to burn again.

is a personal Shanghai,
and just as vast.
I want to believe

that wealth can be
weathered beauty,
Elizabethan colouring,
and a pirate smile.

You get my most
gorgeous parts,
my flaws,

in blind spots,
hidden in ivory,

are discovered
again and again,
as I live between what was
and what will be.
I wear an old shade of red.
My belly is a wrinkled
skin of fruit.
I am no longer a ripe peach,
not even a blossom.
That my daughter is.
I am a rose

blown wide open

petals dripping, seeds dripping

in a garden

full of buds

just waiting to exhale their scent

This cycle

flowers go through


for the next beauty
Poetry is heavy as lead
in my mouth.

Tree branches find more grace
in a wind that’s ragged.
The times have me gobsmacked,
petulant observer, no more endearing
than anonymous audience.

My own visions, shadows on cave
walls, storytelling secret
animal lanterns.
Erin Suurkoivu Dec 2019
Night shows me in stark relief.

I blend in with daylight.

My eyes were once a lighthouse overlooking
Water Street.

I wake in the dark
and see nothing.
Erin Suurkoivu Nov 2019
I hardly journey there anymore.

Those ruins are far and distant,
Far and distant, and black and grey.
Relics are moon rocks in the frozen landscape.

The grand façade of the pantheon has
Crumbled into sand. I could crush it all into
Dust beneath my heel.

The mind itself is an eye, a camera obscura,
Lit not by the moon—
That old pinged marble—

Over whose surface I skim in my tiny submarine.
The lunar scene fills my vision,
Film noir.

I spy the cold garden. In the heart of it
Gleams the litter of my chicken bones.
My cowardice the wicked reminder,

Consequence of the role I performed
For the impassive audience. I underwent
A sea change in the theatre of their minds.

On some other plane
Holy voyeurs peer through spyglass,
Seeking to undress the celestial paramour.

Such delicious vacancy—
**** statue in an arena of eyes,
Gristle picked clean by vultures.

The air is ****** dry. Cold stars
Abound in the black sky.
Smeared ink the lingering impression,

Smudged thumbprint.
What imagery! Featured along with other fine poems in my poetry collection, "Blood for Honey", available on Amazon or through Lulu.
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