Marble Sarcophagus

Intricately carved and shaped-
only to be hidden and shrouded
by death and grief,
hidden from a thief.

But for such morbidity
comes delicate beauty.
Dionysus, in his grape-vines,
triumphant, with fans:

Four Seasons - Spring and Summer,
youths not women, Fall and Winter.
Commissioned with meaning,
purpose or greed? Gleaming,

in marble cast, is death
such a party? Triumphant path
of the God of madness
and the passing Seasons?

Knowing our fates, have we built
or prepared for them? Guilt
or joy - in that pleasant morbidity.
We are nothing but frailty.

Love, passion, indulgence,
anger textured with patience.
That is the fleeting life we fret away
fretting over death's eternal stay.

Mush

Sitting in my high chair, I would stare longingly:

toned and tanned arms moving quickly, 

cradling bright red apples and gripping gleaming sharpened steel. 

A blur of chops, slices, and dices all shoved in a black blender 

to whir around with cinnamon or bananas. Pureed, poured in a bowl. 

Excited, greedy fingers grasped for it and giggling, I shoveled my

baby food into my hungry mouth and missed,  smearing the

fragrant mush across chubby cheeks and my high chair.

Sometimes, running short on time, 

a familiar “pop” preceded a can of Gerber. 

Apples and cinnamon, mixed fruit, or green stuff purees. 

Devoured gleefully, the Gerber baby food always a welcome snack. 

Glass containers were stashed:  I snuck apples and cinnamon

to school,  mixed fruit was for church, green stuff eaten

furtively after swim practice.

Old enough to stop needing

food for babies, the cans began to disappear. 

The cans did not accompany me on the

long plane ride to a strange new land 

I missed them.

I missed them

when new faces spoke that strange language.

I missed them when we moved again.

I missed them until my brother was born.

A new baby meant a new chance to instill

love for homemade mush and industrial mush.

He didn’t like apples and cinnamon.

He didn’t like mixed fruit.

He didn’t like the green stuff.

I snuck into the pantry, confused and eager,

I bit my lip with the anticipation.

Pop.

Apples and cinnamon - childhood manna at last!!!

Gleefully cradling the can and spoon,

I licked my lips and swallowed.

Eyebrows crinkled and lips pursed,

I checked the expiration date.

I re-read the label.

I bought more at the super market,

one in every flavor, and ... terrible.

They all tasted terrible.

Was this my fault?

Had I grown too old to enjoy mush?

Walking through aisles, I often wish to be back in my highchair

in Venezuela - back when the baby food was made with 

love and even Gerber tasted heavenly.

Ars Poetica - Defining What Defines Me

Sitting in front of paper and pen, in front of my laptop,
My eyes blur out of focus as I try to think of defining poetry.
What does it mean to me? What use is it to anyone?
Las palabras bailan sensualmente, intricate and enticing.
I forget meanings and language barriers, but there's a deadline.
Will what I come up with be satisfactory or intelligible to anyone?
Will you like it? Will you accept me for whom I wish to be accepted as?

Mixing words as the warmth of sun's rays play on my right arm,
while the moon sits atop the roof of Bush Science Center,
I type and retype, pausing to find a way to explain what I am - what poetry is. Rising further and further into the sky (or are we sinking and rotating?), the moon distances itself, taking part in a cosmic dance we are too small to understand but for thousands of years scientists and poets have tried to capture and understand it.

The memories created, lived, seen, imagined, remembered, they nag, like a flame to a wick, begging to be recorded. I have been lit from the inside out and am still burning up in desperate ways - burning with the passion to take words and make sense and beauty of them. Brillando en la oscuridad, mi llama baila como las palabras elusivas, acariciada con el amor de un susurro. Will the candle or the flame be blown away with a whisper?

That elusive detail
(feelings of love and inspiration,
creation and destruction,
bloomings of flowers and crescendos in sonatas,
the flight of a bird or the flight of passion,
el aroma de tu piel acariciando la mia,
kisses to soothe passionate bites on sensitive all too-human flesh -
real or imagined)
begs to be understood and immortalized -
can I do it justice?

Poetry: a song that touches the deepest, most hidden parts of hearts with strains and ink-stains so melancholy or hauntingly beautiful  that goosebumps spread across forearms and lives change.
Will it touch yours?
Will you let it?

White Dress (Part 5)

Scared by the intensity of her budding feelings, she swims farther away and tries to get closer to the rest of the group. Loud and small, the black silhouettes on the horizon seem further away than they were mere minutes ago. She sees the outline of Tom, the percussionist, and his impossibly tall and lean physique as he jumps from the dock into the water, trying to impress a girl sitting on the rocks. A large monstrous figure turns out to be Addie and Michael trying to start a game of chicken. Michael is quite the talented bassist, but he needs a new shoulder strap. Bottles begin to litter the shore and their laughter echoes in the night. Janet is sitting on the hood of her car with the headlights on, smoking, and holding hands with the lead singer while she rests her head on his shoulder.

Sometimes Elizabeth wishes that she could fit in with her new hall-mates or even with these new strangers. She isn’t usually this spontaneous, though, she wishes she could be. She normally wouldn’t be out here on the lake. She’d rather be reading, but based on how late it is getting, she would prefer to have been asleep in her soft bed hours ago. 

Well, maybe tonight I’d rather live out the stories in my books. Real life isn’t like books: the story isn’t already written out. I have to write my own story. Maybe I should take a chance and open up my heart.

The spot on Elizabeth’s white dress where his rough hand was just resting is growing cold. Could she be wanting what she didn’t think she’d ever long for? She is becoming much too attached to his inviting eyes: They’re either grey or blue; she’s never close enough to say.

“It’s funny to think the stars are so far away,” he muses as he draws nearer, softly treading water.

“Yeah, funny, I saw a documentary that explained how, even though we see constellations as two-dimensional dots on paper, if you travel toward Orion’s Belt...” she pauses midsentence and swallows hard as his warm rugged hands tenderly snake around her waist, “then you might pass one of the stars on the belt, and the others would still be so far away.”

“Hmmm, why are you so smart? I like the contrast between the magnitude of moon and stars and the infinite smallness of the sand at the bottom of the lake and two bodies floating together in the middle.”

Romantic, isn’t he? I really do like it when he talks like that in my ear. I wonder... what it would feel like if his lips...

She turns around to face him and looks deep into his eyes. Blue, they’re definitely blue.

“My, my, aren’t you poetic?”

“Not as poetic as you, my dear, the bright stars dull next to your sharp mind.” He tucks a strand of red hair behind her ear.

His hand still cupping her cheek, Justin keeps musing out loud: “Your wit and beauty, your body next to mine, locked together in a great expanse of dark oblivion...”

“Now you’re being ridiculous.” She leans in, chuckling and nestling her hand further into his hand.

“No, I’m being sincere.”

He leans in, and she closes her eyes.

For the briefest of moments, two pairs of lips make sweet contact under the sparkling moon. Justin smiles into her lips; Elizabeth deepens the kiss. Elizabeth forgets all about holding her dress down and lets it float up around her as they pulled away from each other. He smiles, and she blushes.

A shooting star crosses the sky as they hold each other at arm’s length.

“Would you tell me more about Ireland?”

Justin holds her hands in his, smiling, and begins to paint a rustic picture of small counties, rolling hills, and a cottage surrounded by thin trees and fats cows. It seems to him that every neighbor has at least one cow. His mother taught him how to milk a cow; his sisters thought it was gross but he thought it was fascinating. Justin’s father was a traveling business man who never had time for his kids, but his mother more than made up for his absence with her vibrant personality. She taught him how to cook and how to hike the hills. Elizabeth sighs contentedly in his embrace as the lake ripples around them.

The slight current tries to lift Elizabeth’s dress again and she smoothes it down. I’m done with this dress and I’m done with being so insecure. She takes in a deep breath, looks into his eyes, and takes the plunge.

“Hey, Justin, do you remember when you asked if it wouldn’t be easier skinny dipping than swimming in this dress?”

“Yes, why?” 

“Do you want to try?” Elizabeth stares into his blue eyes, grinning, and leaves a butterfly kiss on the corner of his mouth.

“Believe it or not, I’ve never done that. I’m not … comfortable enough to-- ”

“I’ll dare if you are willing to take a chance.”

She holds onto his hand and they wade toward the group of rambunctious skinny-dippers. Elizabeth runs onto the shore and removes her dress without bothering to watch where it lands as she jumps off the dock. Justin follows her, taking off his boxers and jumping in after her.

A nighthawk releases its courting call, a brief song akin to the whip-poor-will’s call. Flying out of the oak tree and across the moon, the nighthawk sings as it glides and dives over the water.

The moon shines brightly; its reflection in the lake blurred as a pair of green boxers and a white dress lay half on the shore and half floating in the water, keeping their secrets hidden in their folds.

White Dress (Part 4)

“Hey, love-birds, you guys want some?” The rowdy crowd is offering bottles, to which both Justin and Elizabeth quickly say no. “All right, more for us!!! You guys wanna come try skinny dipping?”

Elizabeth yells no back to the crowd, blushing and hiding behind Justin.

“You don’t drink?” Justin asks, curious.

“No, I don’t want to. You?” She asks, peeking out from behind his shoulder.

“No, there’s no need, not tonight.”

She wonders what in his past would warrant surrendering to the clutches of alcohol on some nights. What makes tonight any different? I probably shouldn’t ask, she thought, looking away and searching for nighthawks.

“A few years ago, my mom... She, em, she passed away, suddenly, and I didn’t quite know how to deal with it. My dad left when I was little; I didn’t really have anyone else to turn to. So I... I turned to alcohol, a lot. I’ve been sober for a year and half. Sometimes it’s really hard to be strong, especially when I’m lonely.”

“I’m so sorry,” Elizabeth said as she hugged him.

“That was probably too much to share so soon, huh?”

“No, no, it’s okay. Do you want to talk about something else?” she says as she brushes his brown hair tenderly out of his eyes.

“Well, you never did get around to telling me your favorite directors.”

“Easy, Joss Whedon, Charlie Chaplin, Michael Powell for The Red Shoes, Ashley Pearce of Downton Abbey. Let’s see, who else.”

“Wait. Joss Whedon? As in director of The Avengers and Firefly?” Justin asked, astonished.

“Yes, why? Do I not seem like the type of girl to like those movies?”

“Not at all. You really are full of surprise, and, by the way, did you know Mike Newell is directing a new screen adaptation of Great Expectations?”

Elizabeth’s eyes light up and she bounces in excitement. Justin smiles at her reaction

.

“I had hoped that would make you happy. I had you picked out as a fellow Dickens fan.”

“Fellow? I take it you’re dying to see it too? Who’s playing Ms. Havisham?”

Lost in their conversation, Elizabeth tries to reconcile the image of Justin playing his guitar solos during the rock concert and the person whose eyes widen when talking about Charles Dickens. Maybe Janet is right about how great a guy Justin is.

“Did you know the some of the girls wanted to take you guys clubbing tonight?” Elizabeth says.

“But we’re having such a good time here on this amazing lake.”

“Do you really think it’s amazing, Justin?”

“Lakes back home in Ireland are usually in the valleys of mountains, fed by glaciers, so they’re usually unswimmable and frigid. Your lake is perfect. These trees and the stars? Perfect.”

Elizabeth takes a look around and realizes he notices the beauty of the Georgia lake she had been admiring. She sees a nighthawk leave its nest on the ground and fly over their heads, gliding through the starry sky. Smiling in spite of herself, she stares after the nighthawk and watches it glide into the massive branches of the largest oak. A branch hangs down low, and she imagines herself sitting on it to read; it looks like the perfect reading spot, just feet from the water’s edge and shaded by the higher branches. She turns back to him, catching a glimpse of a smile meant for the stars above.

“Wouldn’t your bandmates have rather experienced American culture through the typical college bar?”

“There’s the key: typical. Nothing about tonight is typical, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here, talking to a pretty girl.”

“You really think so?” Elizabeth’s eyes widen.

“I really do.”

“Well, then, I guess you’re right. We couldn’t be having this conversation in a bar.”

“Mmhmm, it’s so peaceful out here,” he whispers with awe near the sensitive shell of her ear as the rowdy crowd intermittently explodes with laughter.

Whether it is humor- or alcohol-related is irrelevant now, she thinks as his intoxicating breath wraps her in a fog.

“Mmmm, it really is. I could stay out here forever and just look at the stars. To think that after we leave tonight, you’ll be gone and I have to go to classes. Normal life...”

Justin sighs in her ear and begins to hum a tune. As soon as she recognizes the song, Elizabeth begins to sing along.

“Somewhere beyond the sea, somewhere waiting for me, my lover...” she stops singing, all too aware of that word on her lips.

Justin picks up the song in a deep baritone, holding her slender hands and attempting to slow dance in the chest-deep water.

“...stands on golden sands and watches the ships that go sailin'.”

Elizabeth smiles in spite of herself and allows her limbs to be awkwardly twirled in the water, laughing at how foolish they must look dancing in the water- him in his green-striped boxers and her in her little white dress clinging to her wet body - as they slip around on the mossy rocks on the bottom of the lake. Cocooned by nature, she loses herself in his embrace.

Resting her head on his chest, she discovers that it vibrates as he hums and that his heartbeat is comforting and reassuring. She begins to relish the warmth of his calloused hand on her hip and the feel on their hands interlaced as they dance. 

“My mom used to sing this song to me when I was younger.”

Elizabeth smiles at his sweet confession and, together, they begin singing the second verse: “It's far beyond the star, it's near beyond the moon.”

I don’t behave like this. What’s happening? Why can’t I stop smiling?

“You know, I love to stare at the stars,” she says suddenly, breaking the skin-to-skin contact and turning her back to him.

White Dress (Part 3)

Carefully stepping out of the car in her bare feet, Elizabeth watches as the silhouetted figures scramble and stumble over to the water’s edge. It’s always darkest before the dawn, she reminds herself and wonders how much of the stumbling is caused by the roots and rocks hidden in the deep darkness of midnight and how much of it is caused by the alcohol. Then again, walking on sandy roots and rocks can’t be easy in heels, she thinks, suddenly feeling glad that she left her shoes in the car.

Passing between the thick oak trunks, she smells the woody aroma of the rough bark and smiles, glad to be away from the lights, smells, and sounds of Atlanta. A cool summer breeze whispers through the trees, plays in her hair, and drags away the stagnant heat of Georgia summers. Elizabeth takes a long look at the bright stars, grinning as she finds Hercules and the Swan, usually hidden by the bright lights of cities. She looks around her and feels at peace when she sees the lake is surrounded by tall oaks like a mighty green wall protecting the lake from outsiders. She is shaken out of her reverie by the loud hooting and hollering of her companions.

            The crowd of spontaneous strangers begin stripping and ripping clothes off, clinking bottles and stumbling their way into the rounded lake. In nothing but their underwear, the five foreign strangers and Elizabeth's three new hall-mates wade in the still-warm lake. She stands on the sandy shore, staring down at her feet digging into the soft sand. Surrounded by the strong oaks and the owls hooting midnight like grandfather clocks, Elizabeth keeps forgetting the lake ebbing and flowing in front of her was made by man instead of nature.

“Aren’t you going to come in?” Justin says, his words slurred together by an endearing Irish accent.

He patiently waits for her in the shallows while the rest wade further away from the shore. She nods yes to his smile and begins to walk toward the lake. In the distance, a group of nighthawks warble their songs into the quiet of the night.

“Aren’t you going to undress?” he asks, gesturing to his green-striped boxers.

“No, it’s okay” she says, one foot hovering over the water, not quite sure why she is here.

            This isn’t like me, I don’t know him. I don’t know anyone here very well, and tomorrow he’ll be gone and...but it’s okay, nothing’s going to happen because we’re just going to talk and swim. I bet the water’s divine.

“Wait, what about your dress?” he asks when she is already knee-deep and the water has begun to lap alluringly at the hem of her little white dress.

“No, it’s okay; it’ll be fine.” She flashes him a smile to soothe his worries.

“Are you sure?”

“It’s fine. It’s an old hand-me-down, so it doesn’t really matter.”

“Are you sure you want to swim in your dress? It might be uncomfortable.”

            She runs past his wading body and dives headfirst into the chest-deep water. Under the water, Elizabeth releases every stress and anxiety about this evening and reverts to her childhood self for a second. Giggling and blowing bubbles, she resurfaces a few meters away and stands on one of the moss-covered rocks that litter the lakebed.

“How’s that for being sure?” she challenges him and swims out further.

“No fair, wait for me,” he says and grins, already swimming after her.

            Elizabeth swims past the others with their clinking bottles and slurring lips. She swims past the little island with the fallen tree trunks and looks behind her, hoping that she’s lost him and that he found a more interesting girl to chase. Maybe he likes girls who drink. Feeling her heart dropping, she frowns and finds herself hoping that he has come after her because everyone wants to be liked and sometimes chased. A late summer breeze sends a chill down her spine, and she sinks a bit further into the comforting water, holding her dress down around her.

“AAAAHHHHHHH!!!”

“I’ve got you,” he jokes, his head suddenly emerging from the black depths, his hands still on her calf.

“Justin!!! You... you... scared me” she says, gasping for air, slapping at his arm playfully, and he keeps laughing.

            She notices the way he laughs so wholeheartedly, his head thrown back. The others are too engrossed to even ask if she’s okay. For all they know, I could’ve been eaten by a gator, and they would’ve been too busy drinking and talking about sex to notice. Justin would’ve saved me... right? Justin’s laughter quickly becomes infectious, and soon they’re both laughing. She splashes him while he isn’t looking.

“Where did you learn to swim like that?”

“Like what, Justin?”

“So fast, so well, under water? I’ve never been able to swim well.”

“Oh. Well my parents taught me when I was really young. They decided I had no choice but to be a good swimmer.”

“And you are.”

“Did you never learn to swim?”

“Only well enough to doggy-paddle. It’s one of my few regrets.”

“Oh...”

“So,” he says, “what’s it like to swim in a dress?”

“I’m free,” she says, smiling, and disappears below the surface, self-conscious of his near-nakedness and her white dress clinging to her body while reveling in the rush of water making its way between the fabric and flesh.

            She surfaces, giggling, only to find her dress trapping air bubbles and rising above her waist. Quickly, she smooths it down and allows the bubbles to escape, hoping her lack of underwear hadn’t shown when she was swimming.

“Right, well, that was a lot more of Elizabeth than I thought I’d see tonight,” he smiles and pretends to cover his eyes.

“So, is that why you didn't want to take it off?”

            She blushes sheepishly, and he smiles. 

“Don’t you worry, you have a lovely body and tan. I’m this pasty white everywhere all year.”

He wades closer and flashes a captivating smile. Panicking, Elizabeth looks away, forces a laugh, and splashes him. He tries to dunk her, and she swims away, trying to catch him off-guard to dunk him. If he’s noticed her shying away from intimacy, he hasn’t let on.

            Giggles and laughs become inevitable as the splashing becomes more childish. 

            Splashing and trying to dunk each other is harmless play; maybe then you’ll stop thinking about how nice his lips are. Why do I keep blushing? If you kiss him... well, just don’t. I have to remember to keep this dress down... But his lips look so inviting...