2 December 2002 | Vol. 2, No. 4

Forget-Me-Nots

by CYNTHIA MARIE

Open on the desk Kafka

                                        is flying in his little bucket

     the drops of ink he spilled while becoming aloft

form the profile of a woman's swan neck

                                                                           breakable…

Crumbled forget-me-nots softly sing in white and yellow

                                        black dotted faces upturned

     in hopeful unison, buoyed by the heavy cut

     crystal vase, eager to do justice…

I trace your smooth shank

     school girlishly admire your body a funhouse mirror

                                                            reflection of my own

     my lips there, my mind everywhere

                                                            and madly advancing…

A. Sexton in my lap, again, try to understand her, cannot,

     no room for suicide in my imagination,           not now

          while I'm hung up on the exquisite hot tiny deaths

     that burst inside me each time you breathe my name.