Author: Lady J (Page 1 of 5)

three dykes
flying kites
on the beach
out of reach
in the sky
very high,
higher than all
they do not fall
my sisters
not misters
in control
so I'm told
I stare
against the glare
of sky and wind
as they bend
one rainbow flag
one hot pink diamond
one boxy, shapes of colors
diverse as the three
who only glance at me
from this world we share,
to know, to care,
strangers on the shore,
that's all
there's no more.

--4/15/01

Crown Memorial Beach, Alameda, California

Scott was 19 the year he moved out. I wondered
how he would get all the Star Trek posters off the wall. 
But I knew he would.

As morning beamed through translucence 
of blue organza, his crib stalled 
in the west corner, 
sprinkled the tinkle-tinkle of "Old MacDonald Had a Farm" 
as pink sheep and blue cows on strings 
meandered in an endless circuit.

Sniffing the fresh scent of red clay, I unearthed 
dirt-biked jeans in Size 10 heaped by the hamper 
in the north corner,   
Lego bricks shaping into a space station, 
orchestrated by a soundtrack from his imagination.

A plastic Star Trek population readied for cosmic crises, 
while their alter egos flashed life onto a screen 
in the south corner, 
movements mandated by swifteen fingers 
on a video game pad, stroking easy victories.

Now the east door split open, 
and Scott the man-child brought in boxes, 
and I helped him fill them.
 
The room spun into barrenness, leaving empty corners and 
shadowed walls spotted with Tacky Tape.

Then, in the corner of the closet, where it had fallen 
escaping notice, a two-inch gray plastic Mr. Spock 
begged for rescue, braving the alien world of mother-hands. 
But Scott’s orange and white U-Haul had already 
	melted into silence, 
like a 50-50 ice cream bar, swallowed on a summer night, 
his Enterprise cloaked by the choking dusk of finality.

"Beam me up, Scotty!" the scream echoed. 
I looked into my hands-- 

Mr. Spock was gone.

--10/8/1998

I was frightened of feathers when I was a child,
wondering why they lay around the playground
in the dirt. Where was the bird? Then I learned
they don’t need feathers forever.

In school, I slit a quill to dip in ink,
thinking it was cool.

Then I became dismayed because of the way the vane
came apart. I didn’t know that birds
hook the barbs back together with their beaks
to fix the feather.

I grew weary of hearing,
"What is heavier, a pound of lead
or a pound of feathers?"

Pulsing, shimmering, peacock feathers, not all together,
adorn the knotty pine wall by my grandmother’s hall closet.

Feathers dyed red dance on darkened stage,
swishing swiftly past all age. I danced once
in a club called "Feathers" before the divorce.

Once my daughter bought a fish named Feather.
She didn’t know it was sick when she picked it
out at the store. But no more fish for Lisa.

Linda, my love, is allergic to feathers,
sleeping atop sheets on a hot night
with no pillow at all. I stare at her softness,
moon glimmering in silence. The birds are quiet,
not caring about lost feathers.

--10/1/98

UPDATE (2021): Traci Zahn has a white girl chihuahua named Feathers.

From the dawn I am kindled by passion,
   whirling, swirling, curling into tongues of Fire,
   burning, churning, yearning for satisfaction,
   blaming, flaming, claiming my soul
   until I am consumed.
   
Many fuels spark that Fire,
   unquenchable by any human effort.
   
Paper ignites, bursting spontaneous and hot:
   So Writing devours me, thoughts demand expression,
   compelling, swelling, telling all secrets.
   
Wood embraces the Fire in her heart:  
   As melodies engulf me, flowing from my fingers,
   glowing, growing, sowing rhythms of my spirit.
   
Coal is coaxed to burn, birthing hot embers:
   Computer design unfolds transcendent fascination,
   trying, buying, underlying all of my world.
   
Gasoline spits uninvited destruction:
   Anathemas enrage me, poisoning people, places--and me,
   soaring, roaring, boring black holes of damnation.
   
Candles must be lit, firm towers until
   a flame melts and shapes the wax:
   Relationships ensnare me,
   flinging, clinging, bringing love in all its wily forms.
   
Each Fuel demands more;
   Time is too short to attend,
   and so the days I spend
   hoping, moping, groping for my place.
   
Death-blanket hovers, covers, smothers the Fire
   until it is no more.
   
--9/10/98

Smooth as scarlet glass,
sparkling with beads of clean rinse water
in the early August morning iridescence,
my Prizm glides on silent wheels 
from the shadowed tunnel
of the Alameda South Shore Car Wash.
Many brown hands rush, whirring worn chamois
to dry, to polish, to caress,
ignoring the deep pox-dents in its metal skin:
scars of another summer's hailstorm.

We were so frightened that night,
Scott and me,
not quite home from Microsoft,
caught by the icy stones 
that pummeled with vengeance,
helpless as the droves of other drivers,
swarming freeway exits
crowding under anything overhead
to escape the thundering terror, 
splitting black clouds,
threatening to destroy
the whole of north Texas.
Then a stone missiled toward his face,
cracking sharp crystal veins that spread across the pane
that once had been our windshield.

A white smile beckons me 
from the horror of memory with:
"No. 52 is ready!" 
Forgetting what is past,
I resume my rightful place 
in freshly vacuumed space.
Starbucks cup is still warm in the holder,
and mocha grande lingers in my throat.
Wheel arches upward into my eager hands.
Engine moans softly, willingly, to my touch.
Air fragranced only with freoned coolness
breathes hints of new leather
and wet paint.

And I drive all over again
from the dealer's new car lot
in east Fort Worth.

--9/3/98