(last Friday)

My English class just ended and everyone’s packing up (18 students). The class is held outdoors under a tent due to COVID. My professor says, “Ms Vionet, may I speak with you for a moment?”

I froze, Oh, my God, I thought, is he about to tell me to quit - has he already identified some fundamental inadequacy in my work? The world seemed to go silent as I hefted my backpack and approached him.

“Ms Vionet,” he began.
“Anais,” I interjected.
“Anais,” he patiently started again, “We have a small professor’s choice (invitation only) writing group that meets every two weeks, 7 to 8 PM on Wednesdays - would you be interested in joining us?”

It was hard to hold back a pterodactyl screech of delight. “Yes sir, I’ll be there”

“Here”, he said, motioning to the tent classroom “weather permitting.” He had packed up, he turned and headed for some nearby stairs.

I did a twirl of joy.

my beetle, dead, not buried. i keep them, yet it fell to the floor, mysteriously lost. we try to turn disasters round, here, knowing it will be found, some time. my dear sweet sexton, the burying kind.

i learn about sub soil, all things growing,

the logistics of death.

just stand and watch the season change, note the dew and separate ideas.   remember that you stand alone. are not alone from                                                  criticism and contradiction.

beetles here turn over, legs waving, we turn them back, then, it is all repeated.    empathy kicks in for all small folk who suffer,                                                    who cry in dark corners.

yet i have mislaid  the black beetle too.

it was some time ago we lost.the sexton.

that feeling, that .

arrives unexpected from darkness, some winters’ mornings,

opening the door to the sound of one black bran bird calling.

track four repeated. that

comes on waking finding peace and comfort bound in clean
linen.

arises with perfume, an uncertain memory.

it may be chemicals, peptides in the brain as love, what
ever the germ or warfare

I find no word to describe, no random feather nor dust on
my plate. pass a finger.

that feeling of trimmed nails upon the keys pounding
words and silences.

while music plays. that feeling. that.

syrup stings my tongue.

Have I told you about
the Summer of 74, my
steamy discontent?

There I was, waiting,
like someone waiting.
An empty dance card.
So to speak.

I forget my next thought,
but never those yellow
evenings,

Moments float into a
filled mouth we breathe
into each other, wanting
always waiting.
I keep them in the Chinese box.
Your souvenir of an abandoned
July.

The sweet soft

song lasting in amber grained
wood.  

Your words on my kissed lips.

The perennial intimacy
in the upstairs room you
slept in.

Now the warm night's tango
slides like lotion down
my tanned thighs.

This dance is always,
forever.

Caroline Shank

Two people, faces on
A screen, and two
Voices telling us how we should be
What’s new in the world, why we should
Avoid doing this, avoid doing that
What’s in, what’s not, what we should all do best

I see some nods
I see disapproval, approval
I see shifty glances in eyes
I see mouths start to move and talk
I see phones, many phones
I see the consumerism kicking in
I see unwavering doubt

I see lies, a mirage
I see the contours of deception
I see material eyes and material hearts
I see heavy minds and empty heads
I see people wondering about how they should look instead
I see people dreaming of a better life
I see people forgetting their own beautiful life
I see insecurity, stinging idiosyncrasy
I see flaming ******* media hypocrisy
I see romanticization of all things ugly
I see faces that look so young and glossy
I see big lights that cancel out all the imperfections
I see makeup that covers all the unwanted
I see ivory and I see bone
I see a curated life that I’ve never known
I see this image stitched up
And I never see it become unsewn

Leaving the tribe, away from the ally
On the abstract ground
Creating the separation, leaving addiction
In the fence of consciousness.

Hearing irony, taking all the blame
In a three-way pain
Measuring on what scale, in pressed utterance
In the past grief.

Whom to tell, which way to go
Can't find direction
In the lap of darkness, the day fell
Covered in the darkest night.

Tried to liberate, making the statement
But keep on running
Among the appraisal, remain waiting
On the muddy shores of the river.

~
...of wine and mirth
and holy birth,

of flowers and promise
and braided calmness,

of hummingbird and dragonfly
and their descending sky,

of porpoise and whale
and us as wind against the sail,

of grown wishes and sadness
in the flat fields under duress,

of sugar-filled cocoons and syrup
and sweetest honeymoon trip,

of dimples of Venus
and smiles from Adonis,

of thin walls about her room
in hopes to visit soon,

of all things made and said
and each time we shared a bed...
~