You were never there
Of course. She was born
Too early or you too late.
But she was a beautiful
Dame, you think, turning
Over pages, gazing at her
Her lips to kiss, her arms
To caress, her soft *******
Your pillows and what she
Was like in bed (alive that
Is not dead). However, she
Died too soon, way before
Your time. Old enough to
Have been your grandmother
Had she lived and had her time.
Too bad. She could have been
The best ******* never had.
But Harlow’s just a dream,
A useless thought, just a memory
Now in books and old guy’s heads
Who may or not have shared their
Beds. You were never there, but if
You had and the gods had been
Quite kind and let you meet and
Kiss and **** and love and live
To old age, you could have lived it
All and not have scribed the page.
A POEM ON JEAN HARLOW.
I don't think tunnels can go this deep:
The way the oceans part--
Starfish foam, bubbling for air.
I saw the moon bleeding,
So many hidden cries.
"No fair, no fair...No fair..."
And now the polished skeleton
Bones glisten in the sun.
Taken from the dusty closet,
One by one by one.
Alongside a black journal,
No lock to conceal shame.
Pages of her history,
Like collected pages of
The suffrage, and at the
Very last page, her dream's name.
Italicized like lies fresh oyster pearls shine.
Glistening in the frost of the night,
The soothing heat of her mind's height.
Tunnels can touch Earth's spine.
"Earth's Spine" from J.L. Harlow's book of poetry "Dragonfly Island".
— The End —