Less Talk, More Chairs and Poetry

The painting at the top is titled "No Girl Left Waiting," the one in the middle is "Celebrity" and the blue chair is titled "Drink Responsibly."  All are from my series The Secret Life of Chairs.

The poem suits my blue mood today.

THAT WHICH DOESN'T EASILY FALL

You stand behind me

and the mirror fogs with our steam.

Knowing when to reach out is such a mystery,

an elusive thought that can't be erased

from my gray, textured brain, you are

a misty promise couched

in faith and perpetual motion.

You keep me hoping all will eventually rise up

to fall free,

free through the clouds,

through like hailstones,

through like promises too large to be contained.

I note a vague connection between relationships and time.

And our hands constantly move...

Don't you ever get lonely

for someone to flatten yourself against

when you turn the current on?

Don't you see

these fragments of desire

as they are?

Being born into living beings,

being stuffed into a giant wicker woman,

woman writhing with the need to burn for small relief?

But no relief.

Most days I feel small, inconsequential,

like fluffy stuffing

or wiggling segments

of some waving appendage...

Lined up with the other floats,

I take my place in this weird parade honoring loyalty and strength

where all the other pieces wave that special wave--

rotation of wrist without emotion.

I am a place-holder for the sacrificial fire,

always set to blaze,

always ready to prove,

always knowing how to behave

in an explosive situation,

always left wondering which arm

will fall off

first.

My love most often targets you with accuracy

but, if a small charge expresses itself and spins free

toward some other,

perhaps one housing your characteristics,

I build a dwelling, a small place for each to thrive,

planted in rows so they can grow--

their vines mature,

their virtues twine

to wrap relentlessly

around our cleverly staked denials.

Perhaps all lines do converge,

not at the top as previously thought, but at the navel

where they glow like burning embers,

predicting the future like clusters of children,

reminding me that I should have held on with a purpose.

Every glance is a puzzle piece thrown on the table.

Every touch a fire guttering in the steam.