Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Margrethe H K Nov 2014
How the trees lean to the south
where the sun swallows the day

How the moon at night will push her
over the western edge
spilling colors into the sea

How in the garden at night
I make my way through shadow
following the music of loons

their sad blue notes
rising into a glossy sky
sparkled with stars

forever falling
Margrethe H K Nov 2014
I find my mother in the strawberry field
Not far from the river, kneeling in the dirt

the sun beats down her back
gray hair ruffling in a hot wind

It hasn’t rained in a month
and the earth is an old woman’s face,
cracked with longing

I kneel beside her, our hands on the dusty earth
This earth that she has dug every spring
kneeled upon every summer

Barefoot and sun burnt, plucking ripe red fruit
For pies and jams

Juice-stained lips and tired backs
My mother and her mother, on the porch
Sipping Sherry in sunsets of July’s and Augusts, year after year
Comparing blisters, freckles, wrinkles, lives
Buckets of strawberries overflowing in the kitchen sink

This year the strawberries are withered
*****, red raisins on my tongue
That taste bitter and sharp

I watch my mother, keening softly on the ground
Her heart peeled open and raw

I whisper to her, The dead don’t live very far away

Her swollen grey eyes search the field across the river
As if she expects to see Grandma standing there
Waving, mouthing soundless words on the air

I know when it’s her turn to change worlds, it will be me,
Kneeling here, in the sun’s bright assault
My own daughter by my side,
Witness to this grief,

Her soft, comforting voice, telling me,
The dead don’t live very far away.
Margrethe H K Oct 2014
Outside the sky clogs like bruises
I lay in bed and smoke, thinking
you have disappointed me for the last time

I dream I am in bed with a new lover
watching my reflection in his eyes

The way he says my name, like prayer
like scripture
as if he has come into a sacred place
and each touch must preserve even while it plunders

Last night the bed was a nest of nerves and wrong turns
knees bumping out of rhythm
the scraping of teeth
my ring catching your skin

And the red luminous glow of the alarm clock
measuring the long hours of frustration

Then the crack of a beer can opening
and the sound of your ****
splashing across the toilet seat
in the dark

And in that moment I knew
the problem was you

and not

the absence of my *******.
Margrethe H K Oct 2014
In the watermark of night
we are black shadows swaying

hands finding hips finding thighs
in the dark

blades aligned
we cut stars in ice

back arching in your hands
my hair sweeps a frozen lake

arms stretching distant skies
under the taunt of stars
you pull me in

your face in the moon

winter’s song

your lips

red flowers

I will taste
Margrethe H K Oct 2014
I stand with the living
under a smoke filled pavilion
where shots of whiskey fill tall glasses
and dogs run free

Someone sings my eulogy on a karaoke machine
children color my headstone with
Sapphire Blue and Burnt Orange #10

The music of my dying
sweeps across the gaping earth on a dusty wind
fills it with the voices of the living

My children fly kites in the field
yelling out the stories of their births

You were born in a snowstorm
You were born under a full moon
I was born at sunrise!  the baby yells

The kites swirl, tangle

They huddle and cry
I feel the world crack open

Remember me, whispers the dust
Margrethe H K Oct 2014
The way he blows the smoke out
his eyelids slightly lowering
I know he wants me

I touch my finger to the rim of the glass
tell another lie

There’s a way people draw things out of you
in strange places
veils lift
find new faces

All night he’s watched me behind a screen of smoke

And then the temperature reached one-hundred-and-ten, I say
so I just rappelled the rest of the way down naked

I look at him
lick the salt on my finger

Surprise crosses my face
not salt
but pomegranate sugar
the color of blood

He pulls my hand to his lips
his tongue a thick slug of suction
compressing my finger to the roof of his mouth

Teeth graze my knuckle

For several seconds
my eyes can’t rotate
Margrethe H K Oct 2014
Sitting up late watching the Munsters and eating cheese popcorn and listening to my teeth crackle and writing down whatever this mixed up mind sends to the hands through the pen that’s chewed to the end and three days of ***** dishes stuffed in the oven where I don’t have to look at them and I wish I was somewhere exotic drinking White Russians and dancing to some Cajun beat with a tall dark-haired stranger I once saw in a dream back in the days of sleep-ins and late nights of laugh therapy before the days of real therapy and heavy sessions of what happened to me when I was five or fifteen or that night I got a little too close to that guy in the other lane and sunrises were a walk home after a night of who cares and where was I anyway?
Next page