The Allusionists (Mary Winslow and Jeff Steir)

these two allusionists  **(not illusionists!)

composition is a criminal sentencing, a full-time sensitizing,
a never ending t/rue seeing, recalling, photography by word.

I am a career criminal.  I know.

these two retranslate by digging into word wells and
well hid storage closets under stairs so that we,
the not-in-attendance may envision their sightings with
two hands clutching, comprehending almost better than
the one who is actually there.  

for our version, the one they provide is,
coffee with cream,
scotch with a  beer chaser, tea with honey,
all to be, sipped slow, so
the hot frost on my the chest, infiltrating nostrils,
Vaporub-spreads slow and easy, brainward.  

the allusionists.

the habitual employers of this
specific filter,
(word weavers, I call them behind their backs),
weaving is not in my eternally planned skill set.  

I do so admire their tapestries
that guilt alone demands tribute and obeisance
and this poor imitation.  

I do so admire their tapestries.

Mum she is in the beginning,
Armed with a lot of patience,
Rhyming it with an elegant silence,
Yarn of poetry she is threading.

With all her immense patience,
In this wicked world she is happy,
Not worrying about anything,
She keeps her patience unharmed,
Leveraging her happiness on herself,
Of beautiful words she is a lady,
W**ish her I do a lot of happiness.