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Poetry by Marie Lecrivain |
© 2006 Marie Lecrivain
the three sons of grimm
at the laundromat
next to a double row of driers
one can discern
a fairy tale in progress; a triad of
of squat, bulbous bodies in motion,
bullet-shaped heads
& almond eyes mark them as kin.
the first born abuses the last born,
with pejoratives, & the middle son
joins forces with the first,
poking blunt fingers into
his younger brother's tender flesh,
but then drops back - he's already bored.
howling, the last born
bends his body
into their callous wind; swears
& spin s, tosses & twists his body
to & fro until he stands
face to face with the larger versions
of himself. a meaty hand swings
down & he ducks...
leaving his shadow behind
to take the impact.
full of braggadocio,
the first born will walk the path
of least resistance; drink, smoke,
& fuck to the same lethargic rhythm.
he'll die an lonely pensioner
complaining he never
"got his."
the second son
will stick to the middle road,
& rely on his increasing bulk
to propel him out of mediocrity;
never divining that his ennui
is the anchor that
holds him fast.
the last born will eschew
all roads; he's traveled
beyond the pale. his shadow
treads on the heels
of his brothers' footsteps,
mocking them
at every turn.
reading frank in the bath
soiled by melancholy
she encloses her body
within healing waters
a wine glass perched on a shelf
her head reclines on an inflated pillow
and in her hand
a spark of his unnatural fire
smolders
& then burns
igniting the embers
in his eyes
highlighting the reasonable
furrow of his brow &
the pruient spectre
of his pedestrian shame
the water warms
as his desire
is slowly and rhymically revealed
steam rises
& sweat beads between her breasts
she pull the plug
& the waters recede
the metaphor of him
strides into the room
she remains as dirty as before
All
work is copyrighted property of Marie Lecrivain.
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© 2006
SubtleTea Productions All Rights Reserved |